Embers & Snow
by sillyjoy
Summary: Gendry and Arya were separated during wartime. When they meet again, neither of them recognizing the other, it's seven years later in King's Landing where Daenerys is now ruling the Kingdom. Princess Arya has come, unknown to the King of the North, her brother, to warn the South : evil forces are coming with the blizzard and the snow, and even the Queen's dragons can't stop them...
1. A Prologue of Farewell and Reunion

**Well, hello. **

**First of all this is an AU, but not a _modern _one. The story begins in the middle of 2x04 and everything that happens next will be a mix of season 2 + 3 and my own imagination (**mind the spoilers for season 3!**). The warnings so far are **major character death**, **non-con** and everything else you can expect watching GoT, I guess.**

**I really enjoyed writing this prologue so I hope you'll enjoy reading it just as much (:**

**P.S. :** **The picture is my sister **Margaw**'s property.**

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A Prologue of Farewell and Reunion

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_(In the old, decaying fortress of Castle Harrenhal...)_

Arya couldn't stop crying.

The tears were rolling down her plump face, scrunched up in grief, wetting her pale lips chapped by the cold and leaving wet streaks on her dirty cheeks.

She looked up at the tall boy she was clinging to, sniffing loudly in a very unladylike way.

The boy's greasy, short jet black hair was sticking to his forehead and his face was as muddy and covered in sweat as Arya's. If back at King's Landings she had met him in that state, in front of the noblemen of the court, Arya wouldn't have paid any attention to that nasty rat.

But after escaping certain death _twice _– once the day her father, the Hand of the King was captured and she fled the castle by miracle, and the other time when their band of apprentice Night Watchers fell into the paws of the Gold Cloaks – Arya had realized in the worst way that the men's world was not made for a sensitive little girl like her, and she had learned to forget all about appearances. A fine looking lad like the King could turn out to be the filthiest of traitors, and a lowborn blacksmith – a knight at heart.

They might be covered in mud on top of a layer of dry blood and what other grimes only the Old Gods of the Forest know; they might be wearing the same clothes for days, washing them scarcely with the weather getting colder and colder and no one daring to part with a single piece of clothing… but none of that mattered.

When Arya looked at the older boy she looked past the appearances and what she saw there was a surprisingly smart, cautious person whose eyes the color of the night sky had always looked kindly at her.

He was not exactly a knight in shiny armor, though. He had backed her once thy first time they met, making Hot Pie almost piss his pants but afterwards he'd been as preoccupied by his own safety as everyone else; no one had really paid any attention to what the others were doing in their band.

But he was a quiet boy and Arya had kept trailing after him, loving the silence and taking the opportunity to escape Hot Pie's endless bragging and stupid lies. She found out later that he never told her to piss off because he'd uncovered the girl underneath the disguise and had been trying his best to mind his own business.

_"I knew you were trouble – a girl hiding in the midst of men has to be."_

That's what he'd told her later.

Only when she'd accidentally told him her true identity had he stopped looking down on her. When he'd realized she was no one but Lady Arya of House Stark, daughter of the supposed traitor who tried to dethrone the King of the Andals, his behavior had completely changed.

First off, he'd started showering her with clumsy apologizes for his coarse language. He had looked so _cowed _she would have found it endearing if it hadn't been threatening her secret. And then all of a sudden, he'd called her "my lady".

_"I suppose I should address you like that from now on, right?"_

Arya had stared at him, utterly horrified of someone overhearing him – who knew what the other boys were going to do if they knew the truth? Not only that she was a girl; she was considered a traitor too for flying away during her father's arrest !

But then she'd seen the mischief glinting in his dark eyes and she'd lost it, punching him in the only place she could reach – namely his belly.

_"No, shut up! Don't call me that!" _She had yelled, not amused in the least.

Sadly for her, her little fists hadn't done any damage there, and the boy couldn't stop laughing at her even when she'd managed to knock him over – probably because he'd been laughing too hard to be able to keep his balance.

_Stupid bastard! _She had thought without daring voicing it out loud.

When shortly after they'd been captured by the Golden Cloaks and Arya had to lie in order to save his lowborn ass along with everybody else's (she was still wondering why they were after him _specifically_ and not after _her_), all trace of animosity for him had been forgotten and she'd naturally stuck to him during their long and strenuous journey as captives.

Although he hadn't ostentatiously taken care of the young transvestite, because that would have looked suspicious and only drawn unnecessary attention to them, Arya had felt the weight of his stare on the back of her neck at almost every moment of the day, and instead of irritating her, the sensation that someone was looking after her had given her courage and strength to keep holding on.

At night, after enumerating the long list of the assassins of her father, etching their names into the dark sky and reiterating her vows of vengeance, the former blacksmith had chased away the visions of that dreadful day on the steps of the Great Sept of Baelor that were haunting her and giving her no respite. Each night he would gather her closer (but only as much as he thought was suitable for a lady of the nobility) and whisper in her hair : _"Don't fear, m'lady, I am here. I'll be here always."_

Arya had listened to the gruff, quite voice, hoping the whispered words weren't just hollow promises.

He'd been her lifeline, and now, her last rampart was about to be taken away from her.

_"Don't fear, m'lady."_

In Castle Harrenhal he never let their jailers hit her with the hilt of their swords, always stepping between her and them and taking the blows in her place. Arya had tried to stop him but he was too hard-nosed.

_"I'd never be able to sleep at night if I let them hurt a lady in my presence."_

Back at Winterfell, the rabble had taken their oaths of allegiance toward the lord of the castle and his House but they never treated Arya with such respect. Most of the time, they mistook her for a boy who was wandering around looking for trouble. The former blacksmith, along with her father, was one of the few representatives of the male gender able to notice that she was no boy.

When he had been chosen to endure the interrogation from which nobody came back alive, Arya had been petrified by fear. Only at that moment had it hit her that this could _really _be the end.

He was going to die. And then, it would be her turn. Or maybe Hot Pie's first, the order was irrelevant.

Lady Arya Stark was going to die in the hands of what were merely the manservants of the enemy, and buried after like a dog in the woods – if they bothered burying them instead of letting their corpses rot in the sun.

It was when she was on the verge of losing every hope that the most unexpected of events had occurred, and as much as Arya hated the man, when Tywin Lannister had appeared draped in red and gold, ordering around the men of his son and scolding them for wasting quality workforce as if they were misbehaving children, she had sent her thanks to the Gods – old _and _new.

She'd recognized the man she knew only by name by the coat of arms on his cloak and the way everyone had obeyed him without uttering a single word.

And then Lord Lannister had ordered the Golden Cloaks to free her and the boy and send the latter to one of the knights that were to leave for King's Landing to serve him as a squire.

When they'd released Arya she had slipped through the guard's hands and run to the boy, still tied to the chair so many people had died in before.

"You can't leave me!" She croaked, her voice broken by the sobs she was vainly trying to stifle.

_I'm only a defenseless wolf pup, you said it yourself!_

Still crying, she squeezed up against him, burying her face in his chest, looking yet again for his protection. She could feel the frantic pitter-patter of his heart as it was pounding against her cheek.

_He's scared_, she realized. _He's just as scared as me, but he doesn't let it show._

At that moment, Arya envied him for his self-control while she had none.

"Listen to me, I'll come back for you," the boy replied as Lord Tywin Lannister snapped his fingers, motioning to two of his guards that arrived in that moment to seize her.

"Take the girl to my campement and leave her in the hands of the maids."

"The girl, my Lord?"

"Yes, the girl. Are you all blind?"

"No!" Arya cried, turning her head to glower at them. "Don't you dare touching me!"

"_Ary_," the boy insisted, using her fake name to not reveal her identity, "you have to stop this! Let it go before you get yourself hurt!"

The boy moved his knees in an attempt to push her away but that made her cling to him even more fiercely.

"They can't separate us!" She yelled, wiping furiously her tears with the back of her hands. "You promised me we'll stay together whatever happened! You. _Promised!_"

Arya used to think she was tough, and not behaving like girls should behave but right now, she was forced to realize it was only because she always compared herself to her sister Sansa, the prettiest girl of Winterfell who was known for bursting into tears whenever she got a little dust on her gown. Now she knew that _every girl in the world _had more balls than Sansa Stark.

Now there she was, a helpless child whose former protector had been killed and whose closest thing to a friend was about to be sent away to King's Landings where he was sure to meet his death if anyone recognized him.

_Someone will certainly realize he's still alive!_

When the guards reached for her, she cringed by reflex, protecting herself from a potential blow. They took hold of her shoulders and dragged her away from the boy.

"Don't cry," he told her with a solemn, toneless voice, "for I'll come back to you."

Unable to hold his determined gaze, Arya closed her eyes and let Lord Lannister's men take her away and out of the castle. She didn't fight them, because he was right – there was nothing she could do aside from giving them a reason to harm her.

_It's all over. He's returning to King's Landing where Joffrey's going to kill him as soon as he sees him. And I probably won't survive any longer before Lord Lannister discovers my identity._

Resigning herself to her fate, Arya furrowed her brow and raised her chin proudly, prepared to face whatever destiny awaited for her.

"Farewell, Gendry", she murmured to herself. "Farewell my last friend."

* * *

_(A week later, in King's Landing…)_

Lord Petyr Baelish, treasurer of the Small Council and well-off owner of a dozen brothels scattered all across the capital, was the first one to hear about the cavalry quickly approaching the city gates.

_Finally my spies forestalled the eunuch's. This day looks promising._

He slid each hand into the opposite sleeve of his cassock, a gesture that he'd heard monks saying it gave people an impression of peace and inoffensiveness.

_As if the fact that my hands are hindered means I can't bite their ear off_, Baelish thought as he motioned to his sentinel to leave the Great Hall and return to his post. _Ah, but who can blame the brainless folk for having no imagination at all?_

Manipulating people by using his body language had always been his most precious weapon, so Baelish was cultivating his skills and using every single mind game in his repertoire to get from others what he wanted.

According to his spy, there were five knights sporting Lannister's family crest and a modestly dressed young man that wore no blazon. Since Lord Jamie had been defeated by Ned Stark's older son and his army of senile northern bears, it had to be his father's men.

_Probably scouts announcing the upcoming arrival of the rightful Hand. This means we'll finally get free of the exasperating imp. By the Gods, this day can't get any better!_

Smiling to himself, Baelish only had time to straighten his back before the grand doors opened and the knights entered the Great Hall, the clicking of their armors echoing through the place.

Petyr's gaze flew from one knight to the other, noticing their strangely fresh appearance and the lack of dark circles under their eyes. Usually the scouts were tasked to outdistance the bulk of a regiment or the caravan of some lord travelling with his escort to make sure everything was prepared for their arrival.

Which meant an excruciating, sleepless journey to join the city in time. Scouts usually came in a miserable state and after delivering their message all they needed was a bed – food didn't even come to their minds.

These men looked fresh as newborns.

Baelish tried to hide his confusion but one of his eyebrows still shot up to his hairline. The young King's father, Tywin Lannister, was known for his ascetic lifestyle and he didn't need anything too extravagant to be prepared in advance for him. He was still a Lannister, though, and they were also known to easily take offence when they were poorly welcomed.

If he wanted Joffrey to do him honor, he would have asked of his men to ride like the wind.

"We have a message to deliver from Lord Lannister to his elder son, King Joffrey."

"Hello, my Lords. Why don't you rest a bit first before…"

The one that seemed to be the leader lifted his arm, cutting Baelish off.

"There's no need for it. Where can we find the King?"

Baelish didn't like being ordered around. Or rather, not when the order came from some inferior iron-clad brute. Keeping the corner of his mouth from twitching as it always did when he was pissed, Baelish managed to smile politely at the knight.

"Well, I must say I'm not quite sure myself," he said as he opened his arms, showing the emptiness of the Hall behind him. "The King's been unusually itchy lately. He's been unable to stay in the same place long enough for me to find him. In all honesty, I think His Majesty is just getting impatient to wed his bride-to-be. Or rather to _bed _her," he added in a conspiratorial tone.

The knights remained impassive.

_Seems like I'm making new friends._

"This is urgent, my Lord," the knight insisted.

Baelish studied the others four, their hands hovering nervously over the hilt of their swords.

_Oh, are we getting impatient? Already?_

"If it's so _urgent_, why do you look like you've been taking all your time to come here? None of you seem to have skipped a single night sleep, yet if Lord Lannister was to come…"

The leader glowered at him as the others let out exasperated growls. One of them unsheathed his sword and pointed it at Baelish with a threatening look.

"Lord Lannister is not coming," the one with the sword replied. "We've been charged to deliver Lord Lannister's position and inform the King of the advance of the bastards from the North. Now lead us to the King or you're losing a body part."

Baelish opened his mouth, about to ask what had made Lannister delay his arrival when the doors opened again and the last member of the cavalry entered the Great Hall. Baelish had almost forgotten about him – _almost._

He seemed much younger than the knights, and his gait was odd. He didn't walk like a harden horseman. More like someone whose ass was so sore every step was hurting like Seven Hells.

_What an intriguing squire._

When the young man stopped behind the knights, one of them elbowed him in the ribs and asked : "have you already finished all yer chores, boy?"

The young man cringed but didn't make a sound, keeping his head lowered.

"Bring us to the King," the first knight insisted, watching Baelish intently but the latter's attention was all on the new comer. He looked familiar, as if Baelish had come across him many times in the streets of King's Landing.

_But that's impossible, he's one of Tywin's men. He's from Casterly Rock like the others._

"Aye, m'lord."

The young squire's accent was definitely not from the western coast, though. Even deaf from an ear Baelish would recognize it.

"Well… Go take care of my spear! The blade's gotten blunt again!"

"That's not true, I sharpen it every night," the young man muttered.

His head shot up as he realized what he had said and his gaze met Baelish' for a split second before averting it. It was enough for the treasurer to remember where he used to see that dull face.

_I must be blessed by the Gods – could this really be that bastard who caused Ned Stark's fall from grace? The one who led him to his death?_

Hiding the sudden wave of excitement overcoming him as best as he can, Lord Baelish waited for the boy to be roughly chased out by his master (_"You dare answer me back, boy? Get out of my sight, you piece of horseshit!"_) and bowed in front of the knights.

"Please, excuse me for wasting your time, my Lords. Let's find His young Majesty the King."

* * *

"I know something you don't."

Tyrion Lannister, currently Hand of the King in place of his father, jumped so hard when Lord Baelish suddenly entered his residence in the Tower of the Hand he spilled half of his bottle of wine on his lap.

"Damn you, Master of Coin ! Next time why not blow a horn before walking inside?"

"I'm sorry, my Lord Hand," Lord Baelish said without a trace of guilt in his voice, "did I startle you?"

Tyrion wiped the liquid from his pants as best as he could, looking at the stain with a displeased frown. The Lannisters always bought themselves the most expensive clothes and even if he could replace them without a single thought for the price, dirtying them always made him cringe. Someone had probably spent days sewing these magnificent embroideries, and what about this specific dye, 'redwood', that was known to give off poisonous fumes ? The merchant who did this had probably ruined his _health _making it.

Tyrion forced himself to forget about his ruined pants and looked up to see Lord Baelish watching him with his perpetual smirk.

"Yes, you did. And if you came here to announce me the visit of my father's minions, I'm already aware of that."

"I'm sure you are. The moment they crossed the city gates, I guess ? But that's not what I came here for, my Lord Hand."

Lord Baelish came in front of the table where Tyrion was having lunch, linking his hands behind his back.

"You're gloating even more than usual," Tyrion stated, pouring himself another cup of wine. "If it's not for my father's men, then what is it? And what makes you think I'd want to know whatever it is, anyway?"

"I know something you don't know that you _want_ to know... yet."

Tyrion played a bit with his cup before taking a sip of wine.

"How could I want to know something I don't know anything about?"

Lord Baelish screw up his eyes.

"This conversation is going nowhere," he said.

"I agree. I was only trying to see how long you would go on."

Tyrion savored Lord Baelish' momentary confusion and granted himself another sip.

"So, are you going to spill it or what?"

"There… is a way to stop the folly of Joffrey and _probably,_ escape the fury of that so-called King of the North at the same time," Lord Baelish said in a quiet voice, looking back at the door as if he feared someone overhearing him.

"Do tell," Tyrion replied in the same tone.

"I will but first, I want what you promised me."

Tyrion feigned ignorance but when Lord Baelish kept staring intently at him, he sighed.

"Fine, fine, so be it," he said with a vague wave of his hand, "I'll give you the lordship of Harrenhal, you have my word."

"The word of a Lannister? I shouldn't believe you after the way you tricked me."

"A Lannister always pays his debts, Lord Baelish. And I didn't promise you anything the first time. Now speak, cunning devil, you got me curious. What is it that may pique my interest?"

Lord Baelish took a moment to weigh Tyrion's words, then finally shrugged, seemingly pleased with their deal.

"Well then, I shall tell you what I know."

Leaning over the table, he whispered : "My Lord Hand, as we're talking, Robert Baratheon's son _– _his only,_ true_ son _–_ is quietly strolling around the courtyard of this castle. _Completely _unnoticed by everyone."

It took a moment for Tyrion to understand the meaning behind those words and when realization finally hit him, he jumped to his feet so fast he almost fell flat on his face.

"The blacksmith!"


	2. Lord Rangold of the Dragon's Den

**Rangold, Culling and Dhrogam are OCs.**

**Credits: Thanks to **Hyllean** for taking the time to proofread this chapter and correct some huge and unforgivable mistakes I made. I'm forever grateful lol.**

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Chapter 1 : Lord Rangold of the Dragon's Den

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**Warning: this chapter contains violence. It's not hardcore, but I still think it's better to warn you beforehand. Also, major character death, but it's GoT so you must be used to it. All I can tell is that it's not Gendrya (phew !)**

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_"You tried to kill me," Daenerys said, her voice rising in the darkness of the Black Cells. "You tried to kill the _son_ who was growing inside me. The son of my beloved Khal Drogo. The one who my seers said would become the Greatest Conqueror."_

_Daenerys' voice quivered at the memory of the family she had lost, not to the assassins of the King and Queen but because of her own foolishness._

_"And what about your brother, the man who murdered my father ? And helped Robert the Usurper steal what was mine ?"_

_Daenerys studied the human heap huddled up in a corner of the dungeon. After a week spent in the Black Cells, her long, blond hair had lost its radiance of yesteryear. It was so dirty and burnt now, the color was barely identifiable. Her face was no longer young and beautiful but ravaged, thinned down by hunger and marked by the wrinkles of worry on her forehead and at the corners of her mouth. _

_That barely human form was __Lady Cersei Lannister, the woman Daenerys had come across in Essos thinking she was just one of King Joffrey's concubines who had managed to escape after the Starks' victory in King's Landing. She had helped Daenerys break into the capital city by hidden paths, and take her rightful crown from Stannis Baratheon, but that hadn't been enough to save her from Daenerys' fury when she had found out she was the sister of Jaime Lannister the Kingslayer._

_Daenerys had used Cersei, without knowing that Cersei was using her as well to take revenge. Cersei had thought Robb Stark would take the crown for himself and had been quite surprised to find out the Starks had left the iron throne to Stannis Baratheon, who hadn't even showed up yet. _

_She wanted The Young Wolf's head, and after their victory she'd tried to convince Daenerys into leaving King's Landing and marching against the North. Luckily, the treasurer of her Council informed her of the lady's guile before Daenerys could make the foolish mistake of creating herself unnecessary enemies when what she needed at the beginning of her reign were allies, especially with the King of the North. Daenerys had given the order to arrest Cersei, before she had the chance to run away and unite the banners of Casterly Rock together with her brother Tyrion to rise against their new Queen. Jorah had told Daenerys it could be dangerous to keep the old servants of Red Keep, such as the members of the Small Council, but Daenerys was happy she hadn't followed his advice. They could be useful; they knew the city well, they were its eyes and its ears, and the new Queen needed to learn who her people were and what they needed._

_"Let… my children live."_

_With a sob that was probably fake, Cersei lifted her head and stared into the cold, merciful gaze of the Mother of Dragons._

_The Queen's violet eyes burned brighter at Cersei's disgusting supposition. Cersei could order a baby's death without a blink of her eye which made her think it was everyone else's case. But Daenerys had more principles than the Lannisters._

_Daenerys didn't doubt her sincerity, though. When it came to Cersei's family, gone was the warrior, gone were the devious schemes. Only the mother was left, and she was desperate to ensure the safety of her children._

_"__As you can hear, your crimes are many."_

_"Please ! Let them live !" Cersei cried in a high-pitched voice, using the stones in the walls as leverage to help her stand up and face the Queen. "They have done _nothing_ wrong to you !"_

_"No one is talking about your children, Cersei ! It is you that will pay for your treason, and only you ! I'll never tolerate infanticide under my reign."_

_The Queen's voice was heavy with reproach, because Cersei's nickname was the Child Eater ever since the Starks spread the story about her attempt to kill the little Brandon Stark. Daenerys felt her heart shrink in her chest when she remembered the crippled boy who came with his brother at the signing of the Armistice between their Kingdoms in the island of Dragonstone. He was a courageous boy, choosing life when many in his place would have preferred it a quick death._

_"I'll let your children live, but that doesn't mean I'll ever forget what you've done. I sentence you to death, Lady Lannister."_

_The two women eyed each other in silence, until Cersei finally bowed her head in resignation. _

_"Adrissi jinakes" – _burn her.

_Sangra stood up at the order, his claws scratching the ground as he came closer, his breathing lifting the sand. He lowered his enormous head and opened his mouth, showing rows of fangs big as a man. Cersei let out a little whine and when her gaze met Daenerys', there was soul-deep fear into her wide blue eyes. _

_The dragon roared and Cersei screamed. _

_He breathed out flames that illuminated the whole dungeon and made the rats screech and run away in panic. Cersei's form disappeared in the stream of flames; she had nowhere to escape trapped as she was in the corner and chained to the wall. Before Sangra burned her down, Daenerys saw Cersei's gesticulations as her body was completely aflame, seeking, scratching, reaching with her burning arms, still desperate for a way to survive the inferno._

_Daenerys didn't avert her gaze once. She heard the bones crack and melt; she listened to Cersei's screams of pain as her lungs were turning to ashes…_

* * *

Daenerys woke up and touched her forehead with a sigh. It was burning. She hoped she didn't have a fever.

She waited for her heart rate to slow down before pushing the covers aside and stepping out of bed. She was Queen of Westeros for three years now, but that never prevented her from having nightmares. The usual ones were about Cersei, or about a new era of war and terror. Daenerys never thought being Queen of Westeros would be so different than being the khaleesi of a hundred of savages. So _scarier._

But she couldn't let herself be the prey of fear. If someone someday came to contest her reign, she would burn them down. If someone came to take her crown, she would reduce them to a pile of ashes. Now that she finally had taken her due back, she would not let go easily.

Daenerys felt goosebumps on her arms and noticed that she'd left the windows of her chamber open. The sky outside was black and the stars were twinkling, a warm breeze lifting the transparent curtains from time to time.

She walked silently to the windows and took a peek outside. The dark red back of Sangra was right under her balcony, rising and falling in his sleep. His scales shone dully in the low light of the crescent moon. Daenerys listened to his breathing, the quiet, rhythmical sound helping her settle her nerves.

She had finally found a home, and she was never giving it up.

* * *

When Tyrion, former Hand of the King and now traitor to the crown placed Gendry under the care of Lord Emeric Rangold, one of the oldest friends of the Lannisters in the capital, the only thing he told Gendry had been : keep a low profile, don't go blabbering about your past with anyone and stay away from your old neighborhood.

_"Oh, and learn how to speak properly"_, he had told him on the threshold of the Rangold's house,_ "you're a lord, now. Not only do you have to look like one, but you also have to _sound _like one."_

The Rangolds had only one child, Jake, but they'd been sent his helmet and sword back not very long before Tyrion brought Gendry to their house, which meant he had fallen on the battlefield. Tyrion had offered him as a replacement for the son they had lost, in exchange for their silence and for keeping Gendry safe from the King's men. They didn't know his real name – they had never asked whatsoever about his past – but they were no fools. They suspected he had to be some outlaw but if Tyrion Lannister was vouching for him, they assumed he had to be another victim of Joffrey the Illborn's reign of injustice and terror. The opportunity to 'replace' their loss was also a great motivation. The Rangold House was represented by a silver oak in a diamond-shaped green field, and the first thing Gendry had to learn were the family's words : _Roots before _branches. It meant family was the most important thing for a true Rangold. Everything else disappeared in front of the necessity to carry out the survival of the Rangold House.

A week later they received a letter from the Hand of the King, an official invitation for Jake Rangold to come introduce himself to the royal family and to his wife-to-be, Myrcella Baratheon.

This marriage had been arranged behind Gendry's back, and without his consent. He had had no word in this matter, it had been either that or being thrown out on the street. The Rangolds wanted their family name to prosper, and marrying their son to the King's sister had been a gold mine.

It had been the case until they found out years later that Myrcella was in fact the result of the incestuous relationship between the Lannister siblings.

Gendry had convinced Lannisters and Rangolds that it'd be better to postpone the wedding ceremony until Myrcella came of age. He'd been surprised, and also a bit digusted when he'd first met his wife-to-be to discover she was still a child, hardly eight years old. Gendry had been seventeen at that time, and he'd been far from _attracted_ by that little babbling storm. Her mother, Lady Cersei, had seemed relieved when he made his request, and they had agreed to postpone it all until Myrcella was sixteen.

"Jake, can I help, now ?" Tommen whined, his grumpy face appearing in Gendry's field of vision.

Gendry switched his hammer from one hand to the other to ruffle the mop of blond curls next to him. He chuckled when Tommen pulled away brusquely. Gendry knew the boy hated those patronizing gestures, but he couldn't help teasing him.

After Robb Stark invaded the city of King's Landing only a couple of years later, dethroning Joffrey and exiling Cersei to the hostile continent of Essos, the Rangolds took Cersei's children into their home and protected them from the Starks' vendetta. They hid them away during those years of trouble and insecurity, when the throne had been left empty until Daenerys Targaryen finally entered the game of thrones herself and overtook Stannis Baratheon in the race for the crown. Stannis waited too long before coming to King's Landing, even if it was given to him by an armistice signed with The Young Wolf. He received all authority in the South after agreeing to give up the North. Rumors said he'd been waiting for the sign of his New God to show him when was the right time to enter King's Landing. Apparently he waited too long, and his God abandoned him to the Mother of Dragons' wrath.

Now Myrcella and Tommen were successively fifteen and thirteen years old and they were still living with the Rangolds. After her coronation the Queen pardoned the Lannister children but she forbid them of ever returning to Casterly Rock. It was clear that Daenerys wanted to keep the Lannisters within sight.

Much to his disappointment, even with half of her family being decimated like weed and the revelation that she was her uncle's daughter, Myrcella Lannister grew into an overly unpleasant person. She was a pretty girl, she had manners and knew how to keep up a conversation but she was also self-centered and when she didn't get what she wanted she would sulk or complain to the Rangolds about Gendry's rudeness. Roughly speaking, she seemed fifteen but acted like a spoiled, ten-year-old child. Gendry couldn't really blame her; she used to be considered as Princess Myrcella Baratheon, whose mother showered with attention and got accustomed to always get what she wanted.

Gendry liked Tommen better. The boy was smart and a bit quiet for his age; he kind of reminded Gendry of a younger version of himself. When Tommen was eight years old he didn't like to play war games with the other kids. Instead he was always following Gendry like his shadow, keeping him company at work.

The Rangolds were rolling in money, their private income coming from various places but Gendry wasn't accustomed to that kind of idle lifestyle – he needed to do something with his hands. Lord Emeric had told him his son Jake used to be just as unable to stand still. He came from a healthy family and it was not necessary of him to become a knight. It was a path he chose by himself.

So with Lord Emeric's permission, Gendry found himself a new master blacksmith, for he never accomplished his apprenticeship. And there in what his master called his _'furnace'_, covered in sweat as he hammered the red-glowing steel, twisting and bending one of the hardest materials to his liking – it had finally felt like coming home. Gendry was proud of his profession, especially because he knew he was good at it, and he always listened to his master's guidance with much seriousness.

"Please ?" The boy insisted.

"It's dangerous, Tom. What if you smashed one of your fingers and we had to cut it off ?"

The boy screwed up his eyes and looked down at his hands, moving his fingers as if to make sure they were all still intact.

"Well… that's not a problem," Tommen spoke softly. "I still have nine others…"

"I don't think Lady Rosanna would be happy if you came back home with only nine fingers, Tom. She would skin me alive."

Tommen snickered because it was the truth : ever since the Rangolds adopted the Lannister siblings, Lady Rangold had been overprotective with the little Tommen. Gendry was supposed to be her son and he knew she cared for him but if anything happened to her blond angel, his days would be counted.

Tommen let the subject drop and went to the entry of the forge to sit down on a pile of charcoal and breathe some fresh air.

Gendry knew he'd try his chance tomorrow again, and the day that comes next, and the day after until Gendry gave in. Gendry was not against teaching the boy his craft but he wanted to wait until he was absolutely sure about it. Tommen was young and he had the possibility to do about anything with his life. Gendry didn't want to influence the young lord's choice in any way – who was he to tell a true nobleman what to do with his life ? At his age Tommen was merely a kid looking for distractions.

Gendry resumed his work on the blade he was making for their neighbor, Lord Culling, hammering it repeatedly on the anvil, drawing the piece of metal out until it acquired the length, and especially the width he was aiming for.

Not too thin because it would make the blade weak and easy to break, but not too wide either for the sword would be too heavy and slow down the knight's reflexes. When he was satisfied with the result, Gendry took it with his gloved hand and quickly turned it around before resuming his work on the other side.

Lord Culling had an elder son in the Queen's army and when he'd got wind of Jake Rangold's talent with a hammer and pliers, he'd started placing his orders at his master's forgery.

_"Well, seems like having a little highborn in my forgery is good for the business,"_ the master had said with a grin.

Gendry turned the blade again and started hammering the borders, sharpening the two-edged sides of the blade with short, powerful blows.

When the daylight started to fade – the days were getting shorter and shorter these years, everyone saying it was because of the upcoming winter – Gendry whistled at Tommen to come back inside and help him gather his belongings before going home.

When he looked up though, what he saw was not Tommen but his sister entering the shop. Tommen came behind her, looking as surprised as Gendry to see here in the Trade Quarter that wasn't so far from the Flea Bottom, which was one of the most dangerous areas in the city.

"What are you doing here ? This is not a place for a young lady."

"Hello, my beloved," Myrcella said without looking at him, poking at the armors in a corner of the dusty shop. "I'm happy to see you, too."

"I'm not in the mood to play, Cella. You should have taken Dhorgam with you before coming here."

"Dhorgam," she retorted, "was drunk as a skunk when I left the house. I doubt he could be very helpful when he can't walk straight."

Myrcella left the armors alone and finally looked at Gendry, her frilly dress swooshing when she turned around and walked toward him with a determined flame burning in her emerald eyes.

_Uh-oh_, Gendry thought, _here comes the lioness again._

"I haven't seen you in days, how is that possible when we live under the same roof ?"

Gendry's eyes followed Myrcella as she came closer, rolling her hips suggestively and looking like a predator coming after its prey. Gendry saw Tommen raise his eyebrows behind her back. He was also surprised by Myrcella's unusual behavior.

When she moved to stand at Gendry's back, she stood on her tiptoes and whispered in his ear : "You know, I've always wanted to see you like this, using those strong arms of yours…"

Myrcella touched his shoulder and Gendry froze, his eyes widening when she slowly ran her fingers down the side of his bicep.

Gendry had thought the years would help him wrap his mind around the fact that someday he would marry Myrcella. He'd hoped after getting to know each other he'd come to like her; that some kind of chemistry will suddenly spring between them. And if that wasn't the case, he'd still believed he'd at least be attracted to her when she'd be fully grown up.

But right now, in all honesty, he felt neither excited nor attracted to her.

He felt vaguely… _awkward. _

And that was when Gendry realized he'd actually grown to love Myrcella, of course he did, but it was only a brotherly kind of love, and it would never change. He'd never want to rip off all her clothes and take her against a wall. The mere thought of doing that actually got him nauseous.

"You are so tense," Myrcella murmured as she circled him, her hands sliding up his bare arms and settling on his shoulders.

It was the first time Myrcella obviously made a move on him. She was well brought up and always acted like the perfect lady. Every time they spent alone in the Rangold's house or even before, in the Red Keep, Gendry had found her endearing but also annoyingly boring. This daring Myrcella was something new, but not a good kind of new. She'd probably realized staying at home and waiting for Gendry to come to her was the wrong strategy.

But attacking him on his workplace was not to Gendry's liking.

"Tommen, you should go home," Gendry said between gritted teeth, trying to ignore her when she started rubbing his shoulders, her fingers massaging the skin where neck and shoulder met. It felt good to have someone take care of his sore muscles, but Gendry was well aware of Myrcella's motivations. "The night is about to fall and Lady Rangold is gonna worry."

Tommen shook his head, watching them stubbornly until Gendry lost his patience and chided : "Tommen !" as he put his hammer on the anvil, ready to come and throw the boy outside himself.

When Tommen saw the gesture, his eyes widened and he quickly ran out of the shop without a single glance back.**  
**

"Good, we're finally alone, now."

Myrcella slid her svelte form between Gendry and the anvil and took the hammer out of his hand, letting it drop on the floor with a loud thud.

"What are you doing ?"

"I'm trying to spend some time with my husband," Myrcella replied with a sweet smile.

She pressed herself against him until he could feel the curves of her body through their combined clothes.

"We're not married, yet," Gendry said and grabbed her arms to keep her from rubbing against him like a cat in heat, forcing her to look him in the eyes when he spoke again. "Why are you acting like a whore all of a sudden ?"

Myrcella's smile fell and she glowered at him.

"Why are you always so mean to me ?"

"Myrcella, I promised I'll marry you when you're of age, and I will. But you have to wait one more year."

"_One more _year ?" Myrcella asked, stressing out every word.

She yanked her arms free and stepped out of his reach. Her face was flush red from the heat of the forgery, but from the anger and humiliation too.

"Look, Cella, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have called you that..."

Gendry sighed and reached for her, hoping to soothe her but when he saw tears welling up in her pretty green eyes, he stopped abruptly in tracks.

Myrcella cried for pretty much everything, but this time she seemed devastated.

"You don't like me at all, do you ?"

Her voice shook and she stepped back when Gendry made a step forth. Gendry frowned, unsure of what to do. He usually managed to calm her down by taking her in his arms and holding her close for a moment. It always worked, but what was he to do if Myrcella kept staying away from him ?

"Don't be silly, of course I like you."

"Mother warned me," she cried, not listening to him anymore. "She said I shouldn't give my heart to you, but I… I didn't listen… I thought you were not like the… like other men."

Myrcella was hiccupping and sobbing so hard Gendry had a hard time understanding what she was saying. When he didn't reply to her hysteric nonsense she let out a frustrated cry and grabbed the bottom of her dress.

"I _hate _you, Jake Rangold, you're such an idiot !"

Before Gendry could do anything she was already outside of the shop.

He couldn't let her running alone in the streets. In her current state, who knew where she'd end up ?

Kicking the hammer out of his way, Gendry quickly took off the rough leather jerkin he used as protection at work and threw it on a table nearby before going after Myrcella.

The streets smelled of piss and shit and warm sand but he didn't register. After spending so many years leaving in the scum of the city he'd gotten used to it. Myrcella and Tommen had fussed when they had first walked into the streets of the _real _capital, but even they had gradually forgotten the smell.

A fresh breeze was running through Gendry's hair and he felt the air getting colder as the sun was going down on the horizon.

Myrcella seemed to have vanished into thin air and Gendry was starting to worry. If the night fell and she was still somewhere on her own, it could become seriously dangerous. Thieves and rapists were crossing the city freely at night. If they found her before him, they'd show her no mercy.

_Maybe I should go home first_, he thought, _and if she's not there I could maybe get Dhorgam to help me._

Gendry turned around and left the Flea Bottom behind him to head for Gold Rock, the district perched on top of a hill where the richest families were settled, far away from the stink of the slums.

* * *

Rosanna Rangold was blocking the stairs and when Gendry tried to climb past her, she put a hand on his shoulder to stop him.

"Myrcella is fine. She came home crying and locked herself in her room, but she's not been attacked."

When Gendry tried to gently push her out of his way, her grip on his shoulder tightened.

"I don't think it'd be wise of you to disturb her right now. She told me… that you said something to her ?"

"But I'm sorry ?" Gendry said taking a step back to look her in the face, but it sounded more like a question than a statement. "I didn't mean to hurt her, I swear."

_"I don't want to see that pig ever again !" _Myrcella's voice came through the thick, oaken door of her room.

Lady Rangold smiled sadly at him.

"Myrcella is a sensible girl, Jake. You must be gentle with her, she lost her parents to the war and now all she's got is you."

Gendry frowned. He knew the Lannisters were orphans but Myrcella had never been overly affected by her father's, or even her mother's death. She loved them, but she loved being alive even more. And she was not alone, she had Tommen and the Rangolds too.

"You are her family, Jake," Rosanna said firmly.

She let out a sigh when Gendry turned his back at her and climbed down the stairs, ignoring her last statement. It worried her to see how opposed he became every passing day to his marriage with the Lannister girl. If he refused to take her as his wife when she was finally of age, her husband would not be as lenient as her. All Rosanna Rangold wanted for those children she considered as yours was for them to be happy. Unfortunately, she had to choose which happiness counted the most – Myrcella's or Jake's.

Lady Rangold sighed one last time before climbing the few stairs left to the first floor and knocking softly on Myrcella's door.

"Myrcella ? Let me in. We need to have a little girl talk."

_"I'm not a girl ! I'm a woman !"_

"A _woman _talk it is, then," Rosanna replied with a faint smile.

* * *

When Gendry arrived in the hall he came to a stop and leaned against a wall, revealing in the coldness of the stone appeasing his heated flesh through his linen tunic.

Why did it have to be so _complicated _? Why couldn't he just marry her, put a baby in her belly, buy her a beautiful house and leave her there ? That was exactly what the son of their neighbor, Sidgar Culling, did with his wife – he got her pregnant on their wedding night, and now he didn't have to honor her again before months, or even years. When they went together to the brothel, he'd always advise Gendry to do the same and stop worrying his head so much.

Gendry ran his fingers through his hair, a few stray locks falling over his forehead as he did so. He was a bundle of nerves tonight and he would be unable to go to sleep if he didn't find a way to release the pressure.

Luckily he knew exactly the right place for this kind of problems.

Gendry was about to get out in the courtyard and find himself a horse when he heard Lord Emeric coughing. The old man was perched on the first step of the stairs, and he didn't look really well. He was leaning against the wall with a hand plastered to his mouth, trying to control the jerks of his body.

"Father."

Gendry quickly ran to the old man and lent him his shoulder for support. When they reached the ground floor Gendry helped him sit on the step and when the old man tugged his sleeve, Gendry sat down next to him.

"Where are you going ?" Gendry asked, "you should be in bed by this time."

"I just wanted to stay out before Rosy's coming back to lock me in our room. I used to be a knight, I slept outside !"

Lord Emeric turned his head, his blind eyes staring in Gendry's direction without being able to see him properly. The old man was half-blind since a bad fall off horse.

"You would still be one too, if it wasn't for your injury."

Gendry nodded, not knowing anymore how much the old man's damaged brain remembered was real and how much not. Sometimes he felt like Lord Emeric took him for his son Jake, and strongly believed the excuse Tyrion invented for them that he suffered from a severe leg injury was true. They had to create that lie if Gendry didn't want to be sent to war with not a single idea about how he was supposed to hold a sword.

"They should change the name of the city," the old man suddenly said, and Gendry sighed, realizing he was in for yet another one of the old man's neverending monologues. "With all those dragons all around the city, they should name it Dragon's Den instead of King's Landing. There is no King, anymore, only a Queen. Feels disrespectful to keep the old appellation."

Whenever Lord Emeric got started about the dragons, it became impossible to stop him. Gendry agreed with a nod for the man could discern forms and shadows and leant back on his elbows, ready to hear the story again.

"The Queen is really a fine strategist, surrounding the city like she did. I heard that Kazek, the White Fury was somewhere in the east. Do you know why he's called the White Fury ?"

Gendry wondered for a second if it was a rhetorical question but when the old man carried on without waiting for a reply, he only shrugged.

"It's because after killing Stannis he was charged by the Queen to find and destroy every single Baratheon left, and wipe them off the face of the earth. _'Ours is the fury' _were their words, and now they belong to the yellow beast."

"You know, I was there when it happened."

"Meywa is my all-time favorite," Lord Emeric said, not paying attention to Gendry's words. "Meywa, the Nightmare. What a darling, she burned down Stannis' fleet in less than two days, roaming the coast and annihilating every of the pitiful attempts of his army. I heard the stink of carbonized flesh was so suffocating the fishermen and their wives had to leave the villages and move inland. Stannis' army was led by his fire-witch whore which casted a black spell on Meywa, and the poor darling lost her wings to some kind of unnatural gangrene. I was there at the wake for her after the Queen made Kazek rip her wings off, because only dragon claws can pierce their scales… What a beauty she was. Dark blue scales, the color of jade in the light of the thousands of candles. It was like looking into the ocean depths. She'll always be the last thing I remember before losing my sight."

"You forgot Sangra. Sangra the Queen's Watch."

The old man frowned, his yellowish teeth showing when he nibbled at his lower lip.

"Sangra," he grumbled. "Oh, that one. The guard dog living in the Red Keep… he's the one that executed Lady Lannister, from what I've heard."

The old man stopped suddenly, cut off in midsentence by a coughing fit. Those attacks were usually strong, and Gendry never got used to watching the old man struggle against the disease. When it was over his breathing was rough, and he had droplets of spit at the corners of his mouth and on his chin. Without thinking about it, Gendry stood up and pulled out the old man's well-used tissue from his pocket, wiping his face with quick, precise moves and putting it away.

"Thank you," the old man said with a nod, and Gendry resumed his place on the steps.

"All my loyalty goes to the Queen, but I still believe the murder of Cersei Lannister was unnecessary."

"The Queen was in her right. They had sent assassins after her."

"Yes, yes," the old man replied, looking up at the ceiling, "but the Queen's alive now, isn't she ? And Cersei was her ally, you're not supposed to burn your allies alive. The Rangolds are an old family, Jake, and we've always been closely related to the Lannisters. I knew Cersei… I remember what a young and lively girl she was during her wedding ceremony. A beautiful flower…"

He stopped again to clear his throat, his eyes strangely red, as if he was fighting off tears.

"I hope you understand what an honor," he said, "and how very important it is for our family that you're taking Cersei Lannister's daughter as your wife ?"

The eyes of Lord Rangold felt like they were burning holes into Gendry's head and even if the man was blind as a mole, Gendry averted his eyes and stared at the wall, unable to hold his gaze. So _that _was the meaning of the old man's screed. He had heard Myrcella complaining about Gendry's lack of interest in her – again.

"_Roots before branches_," the old man said before patting his shoulder.

Lord Emeric stood up and walked away in the direction of the kitchens, leaving Gendry alone in the dimly lit hall.

Gendry didn't want to think about next year.

About Myrcella's sixteenth birthday.

About their wedding ceremony.

He refused to let a girl spoil his fun. For now he was still single, and he was pretty damn going to enjoy his last year of freedom. Once he's married he would never allow himself to cheat on his wife because the guilt would eat at him for the rest of his life.

_Myrcella is still a child, I should have postponed the marriage until she was twenty. Or maybe more. If only…_

Whenever he looked at her, she reminded him of the little girl he met seven years ago when Tyrion introduced to each other, and his shock when he had realized she didn't look any older than Arya.

With the thought of the wild wolf pup suddenly popping in his mind, Gendry felt a wave of dread overflow him.

Those were dark, troubled times when he met Arya Stark and then lost sight of her, and many of his memories of that time were only vague sensations of imminent danger; blurry ghosts haunting his mind and reappearing from time to time.

Gendry had followed the proceedings of the war like everybody else; he had seen Robb Stark's army invade King's Landing and had heard his men's cry of victory when Joffrey's head was parted from the rest of his body and thrown to the dogs. Robb Stark didn't expose the dead King's head on the ramparts of the castle. He'd said it would be doing too much honor to that filthy imposter.

Gendry had been happy to hear about Arya being safely back in Winterfell, rescued by her brother after he crushed Tywin's army with the undreamed-of help of the Greyjoys. She was the _Princess _of the North now, but Gendry would forever remember her as the annoying little tomboy she was back then. He hadn't seen her since Harrenhal and didn't have any idea of what she looked like, anyway.

_Seven years and I still think about that reckless flea_, he thought with a smile.

When he closed his eyes he could _almost_ see the dark, copper colored hair – and the atrocious bowl cut. He could even remember the condescending look of those grey eyes whenever he tried to offer his help. Arya had been a fierce wolf pup and helping her still felt like the most important thing he'd ever done in his life.

But hard as he tried, he was unable to recall her face. It was so long ago it felt like a dream.

_As if I could have been lucky enough to meet the Princess of the North. Maybe I'm making it all up in my head ? _He thought with a frown.

Slapping his thighs, Gendry stood up (the stone was cold, his butt was beginning to complain) and walked outside in the backyard.

In one of the empty stalls of the stable he found Dhorgam's smelly form sleeping soundly on a pile of straw, his roaring snore making the horses neigh and stamp nervously.

Gendry untied Starlight, his favorite horse, a hybrid with black feet and a brown and grey flecked coat. He saddled him in the yard before taking him outside to mount him.

It was the new moon and the feeble light of the torches was leaving the streets in shadows. It was better to be on horse at night, Gendry had nearly lost his life to robbers once when he tried to walk the streets at night by himself.

A grunt behind his back made Starlight neigh, and Gendry pulled the bridle of the horse to make him turn around.

"Dhorgam, do you _really _have to follow me everywhere ? It's highly improbable that I'll be murdered tonight."

Dhorgam was mounting another of the Rangold's horses, this one bigger and completely black, and he looked surprisingly awake for a man who was dead asleep only moments ago. Dhorgam was Gendry's personal guard, one of Tyrion's loyal dogs who trailed after him day and night… when he was not passed out in the stables from too much drinking.

"Sorry m'lord, but I can't leave you alone. You can't fight by yourself, I've witnessed yer sword skills before."

"That's because I don't have to use them, I only _make_ them," Gendry replied, a bit embarrassed when he remembered the day he almost blinded Dhorgman in one eye.

They rode in silence, hooves hitting heavily the ground the only sound in the night. They saw only two Golden Cloaks on their way, the squad not as important as it used to be, and Gendry instinctively gripped his bridle until his knuckles turned white, ready to flee at full gallop if any of them came too close. They were perched on the rooftop of a small house, and luckily they let them pass without trouble. Gendry was dressed in fine clothes, he didn't look like a lowborn brigand anymore and didn't raise their suspicion whatsoever. He was a young lord followed by his manservant.

"I never asked your name."

Gendry stopped in front of the brothel. It was a place he's never tried before, for it was not one of Lord Baelish' establishments. The laughs and loud, drunken voices of the customers could be heard from the street.

"It's Dhorgam, m'lord ?"

The tall, burly guard watched Gendry with a confused look on his face.

"I meant : where are you from ? What's your family name?"

"I'm called Dhorgam Waters, m'lord. I'm born here and I've never been anywhere else."

Gendry froze as he was about to dismount.

"You are a bastard," he stated dumbly.

"Aye, m'lord."

The man looked him proudly in the eye not in a daring way, but rather as if saying _"that's how things are, so you'd better deal with it"._

That attitude made Gendry smile.

"Well then. Let's go."

* * *

"Hey, what about my reward, sweetheart ?"

The woman pushed the covers with her foot, letting them slide on the ground with a soft sound before standing up to lace her fingers in Gendry's unruly hair.

Gendry elbowed her aside and kept buttoning his shirt.

"You already got your reward," he replied absentmindedly as he started looking for his shoes.

"Ha-ha, you're a funny one."

The woman crossed her arms over her naked chest and her eyes got from soft and languid to hard as stones.

"I want my money."

"Oh, yeah, sorry," Gendry mumbled as he finally realized what she was talking about. "I-I'm not used to paying," he explained as he fished in his pockets, looking for his purse.

Littlefinger always let him use his whores for free, saying it was a little service he hoped Gendry won't forget when _'the time came'._ Whatever Tyrion and Baelish were plotting Gendry didn't care, as long as it kept him alive. He was not going to start asking questions when he was allowed to enjoy the finest of female companies for free. This time he'd just wanted to try something different, for Baelish' whores were a bit _too_ professional sometimes.

The woman made no comment and held out her delicate hand. Gendry put three coins in her palm before pocketing his purse back.

"Oh, thank you, my lord," the girl exclaimed in delight when she counted the golden coins. "You are very generous. It'd be my pleasure to service you again. Whenever you like, my lord."

Outside the brothel, Gendry found Dhorgam sitting on a fence, patting the neck of his horse.

"Was she good, m'lord ?"

"If you had come with me, you'd have seen by yourself."

Dhorgam laughed and stood up.

"I have no money left for the whores, m'lord, I spend it all in the taverns."

"You should have told me. Next time, I'll–"

"M'LORD !"

Dhorgam pointed at something behind Gendry before unsheathing his sword – an ugly, indented weapon that could cut stone like butter. He quickly ran to come in front of Gendry and shield him with his body. When Gendry turned his head to follow Dhorgam's gaze, he saw the curved tip of a dagger aiming straight for his skull.

There was the sound of steel clashing against steel, and when Gendry opened his eyes (he hadn't even noticed he'd closed them) he saw that Dhorgam's monster of a sword had rose in time to block the attack.

Growling like an enraged dog, Dhorgam pushed his assailant with his sword until the other gave in, stumbling backwards. Gendry couldn't make out the other man's features for he was dressed in black from head to toe, his face hidden by his black hood.

Dressed like an assassin.

"M'lord, get inside !" Dhorgam yelled as the man was trying to get past him.

Everytime he reached for Gendry, Dhorgam would deflect his blows and kick him back again. He was quickly losing his strength, though, the wine still working on his reflexes, slowing his movements and making it impossible to keep up with the quick moves of the hired killer.

Gendry didn't want to hide like a coward while this man was giving his life for him. It seemed wrong, even if it was the best choice. He was not a fighter, after all. He couldn't help Dhorgam even if he wanted to.

_"Don't be stupid, Gendry. You can do whatever you want !"_

His mother's voice suddenly resonating in his head startled him. He hadn't thought about her for ages, why was he thinking about her all of a sudden ?

"M'lord !"

Dhorgam turned around to see if Gendry had gotten inside, and it was enough for his opponent to kick him in the back. Dhorgam fell face first on the ground with a muffled groan. The man stepped with his boot on his back to make sure he'd immobilized him and lifted his dagger, aiming for Dhorgam's exposed nape. He was taking the time to kill the guard because he knew Gendry could go nowhere.

_It's now or never. If I run, it's now or never !_

"Nymeria ! Bring me that bastard's bollocks !"

Gendry felt his blood freeze in his veins when he heard the quick panting of a dog behind him.

_They are two, _he thought, _it's over, there's no escape anymore !_

"She won't obey you," said another man, a smile audible in his voice. "Nymeria ? Get him !"

Gendry closed his eyes and waited for the jaws of the animal to close around his neck, praying for his death to be quick. His life had been short, that was for sure, but it hadn't been _that_ bad. Especially these last years. He was going to die a lord, now, it wasn't small matter. His body would be cherished after his death, taken care of and put into the ground. Not thrown into a mass grave, his name forever forgotten and his flesh feeding the worms and the wildcats.

He felt a rush of air when the dog jumped over him and heard the soft sound of his paws when he hit the ground… in front of him.

Gendry's eyes fluttered open in disbelief and he saw the curled tip of a bushy tail only an inch from his nose. It was grey with a bunch of white streaks of fur running through it, and when he looked up he saw the biggest dog he'd ever seen. It was _gigantic_.

Before he could utter a single sound, the dog whisked its tail and the muscles of his hind legs tensed up before he lunged at the black form with a low growl, toppling him over and tearing through clothes and flesh and bones with huge claws. The man cried out and stabbed it once with his dagger but his weapon slipped from his hand and stayed planted into the animal without it even noticing.

"Enough playing."

Gendry heard the unknown voice of the second man above the screaming of the assassin, and the dog obeyed immediately. It bit the man's throat, tearing a good pound of flesh off before letting it drop on the ground. The gurgle of the man as he drowned in his own blood lasted for a couple of minutes, and then it finally stopped and his whole body went slack under the dog's paws.

The dog turned its head then, his red tongue licking at the blood on his muzzle, and Gendry finally had the chance to take a good look at it. It wasn't a simple dog as he first thought but a wolf, and with that realization came another one.

_Stark._

Gendry turned his head but at the same moment he felt something cold and sharp against his throat, and soon after an arm was sliding around his chest to bring him closer to the blade.

The sharp blade of a sword.

Gendry didn't even dare swallowing, afraid of cutting himself if he moved only the slightest bit.

"I told you to bring me his balls, not to _eat them_," the first man said. He led his horse to the place where the corpse of the assassin was lying and pushed the hungry wolf aside without fearing its fangs.

Gendry tried to take a look at the man who was holding him still, probably the other's servant, but it only earned him the sting of the steel when it bit his flesh, a fat drop of blood escaping from the cut and running down his Adam's apple.

"Don't move."

The order was whispered in his ear and with a blade against his throat, Gendry took the threat really seriously.

"The wolf," he said, ignoring the arm that gripped him like a vise, trying to crush his rib cage. "You must be a Stark."

The first man turned around and looked him up and down, as if judging if Gendry was good enough to give him an answer. He himself wore a long mantle that made it impossible to see what he wore underneath. Being a child of the South, Gendry had never worn such get-up, and the sight of the furred hood confirmed his suspicion that these two men had to be from somewhere in the North.

They were all startled by Dhorgam's groan as he lifted his head from the ground, blinking furiously.

"M'lord ?"

"I'm alright, Dhorgam."

"You are," the first man replied, "for _now._"

Gendry exchanged a look with Dhorgam, and he saw his guard reach for his sword and hide it slowly behind his back.

"I am Theon Greyjoy. Son of Balon Greyjoy, lord of the Iron Islands. I am not a _Stark._"

Gendry felt a bit lost. What was the son of Balon Greyjoy doing in King's Landing ? The war was over years ago, and since then the Greyjoys had accepted to retreat to their archipelago when they saw it was no use to fight against the Mother of Dragons, for she was too powerful for them. Had they suddenly decided to break the treaty with the Queen of Westeros and start their conquest on the continent as the rumors said was one of their biggest ambition ?

_And what is a Greyjoy doing with a giant wolf ?_

"Is she alright ?" The servant asked.

Theon Greyjoy crouched next to the beast and pulled the dagger out.

"The wound is deep but she'll live, don't worry. We'll take care of her in the Red Keep."

He threw the dagger away and patted the wolf once before mounting what was a beautiful white horse. To Gendry's opinion, it was foolishness to ride a horse so easily noticeable, especially at night. It was a wonder the man was still alive after crossing the whole continent.

"Now lead us to your Queen. And if your dog with his nasty sword tries anything against me… And I mean _anything_, my manservant will cut your throat."

Lord Greyjoy pointed Gendry and looked at Dhorgam, his blue eyes blazing fiercely.

"I said I'll cut your master's throat, did you not hear me ?"

"Yes, m'lord," Dhorgam grumbled, showing the sword he was hiding and putting it conspicuously back into its sheath. "I heard you."

Theon Greyjoy nodded, visibly pleased, and Gendry felt the sword slide slowly against his skin before disappearing. He rubbed his throat, smearing the blood onto his fingers as he did so, but then the manservant of Greyjoy pushed him forth.

"Go get your horses and lead us to your Queen," he said.


	3. All Men Must Pay

**Hello again, dear readers ! And sorry for the wait.**

**I'm thrilled to finally present you my grown-up-Arya's POV ! And by the way, Arabella Frey is an OC, even if House Frey is "real". I know, I make up lots of OCs.**

**Update on 5/28/13: Just noticed there are many misspelled words and some unfinished sentences, I'm so sorry to leave it like that but it'll be corrected as soon as I have chapter 4 posted. Promise!**

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Chapter 2 : All Men Must Pay

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**Warnings : There are allusions/memories of a non-con situation. Again, nothing hardcore (I don't feel like writing crude scenes). But again, I think it's best to warn you. Usually non-con is a BIG no no for me when I read but, well, when you are on the writer-side you suddenly realize good drama can't be achieved if you only talk about ponies pooping rainbows.**

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Princess Arya Stark was standing alone on a precipice, enjoying the invigorating wind blowing in her face. From time to time it'd suddenly change its direction, making the bottom of her colorful wraps flap against her legs.

The Shivering Sea was calm that morning, the waves rolling lazily on the surface of the water before smashing against the base of the cliff. The rest of the isles usually filling the horizon were hidden in the mist and with the sea stretching as far as the eye could see, it felt like she was standing at the end of the world.

Arya had been living in Braavos for five years. She had witnessed violent storms breaking in the middle of the day without a warning sign, sinking the fishermen's boats on the high seas. She had seen waves big as a tower engulf isles of the Free City, taking away houses and men. The only things left after such calamities were soaked ruins.

She had also gone fishing on beautiful days when the sun was shining and the water was clear and bright.

But even if she had adapted to the cool weather of the coast pretty easily (she was a Stark after all, she didn't fear the cold), it didn't mean she felt home. Truth be told, Arya missed her home. She missed the city gates of Winterfell that she used to climb with her brother Brandon; she longed to run into the courtyard of the castle and launch herself into the open arms of her mother and her brothers. Robb, Jon, Theon, Bran and Rickon, she was surprised that she missed them all and not only Jon, with whom she always got along the best.

_I wonder how much Rickon has grown, _she thought with a faint smile._ He's probably bigger than me by now_.

She used to be taller than Brandon too, but when the war was over and she had come back to Winterfell with Robb's army, it had been to found a giant where she had left a dwarf. Well, giant was a bit over the top, but Brandon had still towered her by six _impressive_ inches.

Arya had also grown but unfortunately, she was a girl, and she had reached her limit at a little more than five feet. Five _ridiculous _feet when the women of the North were supposed to be tall. Arya had always felt her gender like a load she had to carry on her shoulders in every single aspect of her existence, and her height only added to her troubles. For instance, she had been told it was no use for her to learn fencing for she'd never be able to carry a sword. They were made only for men's strong arms.

But then her brother Jon had believed in her enough to gift her with Needle, made expressly for her small frame. Unfortunately she'd lost it years ago and she couldn't remember where.

But as big a hinder as it had always been, her gender hadn't stopped her from addressing Robb the request to let her resume the fencing lessons she'd started years ago in King's Landing, and which had abruptly ended with the murder of her master fencer, Syrio Forel. He always claimed to be the (former) First Sword of Braavos, and that name had stuck into Arya's mind.

Braavos.

She obviously had to go to Braavos to find herself a master as talented as her previous one. Even Robb had agreed with the statement that the people of Braavos were the most talented swordsmen, but he had doubted any of them would want to share their knowledge with a foreigner.

She had only ever heard Syrio mention their unique style, the _Water Dancing_, and he never had the time to actually start his lessons before his death. Arya had needed to start from the very beginning, and all they had ever discussed about that secret Bravos style was pure theory.

At first, Robb had been hesitant. He had probably felt that she wasn't sincere about her motivations. But she couldn't tell him the truth, not ever. He'd have tried to stop her, tell her that the era of vengeance was over and that mercy was the only way to ensure the young and thus, still fragile treaty of peace with the South. She had heard that speech countless times, coming from many mouths and if it had sufficed for her brothers, good for them. If Robb's army had chosen to forgive, it was their right to do so. But no one could force her into following their example. The captivity, the humiliation and the numerous outrages that were still keeping her awake at night had molded her through the years, made her stronger and maybe colder for she'd lost her innocence and her naivety. She knew she was _never _going to forget, so there was little chance for forgiveness.

At the end it had taken Jon and Theon rooting for her to make Robb give in, granting her permission (and an impressive escort) to go wherever she wanted. She could still remember her mother's words when she told her that Robb had finally approved. "_The man that would tame Princess Arya has yet to be born_."

Arya liked Winterfell and she probably missed it that bad because it had been five years since she had put a foot inside the courtyard of the castle, but that didn't mean she was willing to spend all her life inside its walls. Fate had dragged her so far from her home during the war and even if life had been harsh and more about surviving than actual living, it had given her the opportunity to see so many places, live so many adventures and get through so many troubles without anybody's help but her own self that she had been unwilling to turn her back to a world so wide and lively, that was only waiting for her. The call of the wild was too strong to ignore.

A soft murmur carried by the wind made Arya's hand hover above the hilt of her sword, hanging at her wide snakeskin belt. She looked over her shoulder to the winding path that led to the top of the cliff, looking for a sign of her master. Was it him or was it another one of her hallucinations ?

Being trained by Jaqen H'ghar, the man who could shape his shadow as he pleased was always a nerve wracking exercise. It had only taken her a few days at the beginning of her apprenticeship to start doubting her very senses.

_"If a girl wants to find a man, she must open her mind."_

Each morning, Jaqen would leave the old shack he was sharing with his apprentice to hide somewhere in the deserted isle that took place at the very limits of the lagoon. The island was nothing more than a small rock scattered with a few fishermen shacks and mostly covered in green moss and slick, yellowish lichen. There weren't hundreds of places to hide, and still, Arya had been unable to beat him at his own game even once. Her master remained persistently invisible until she had no other choice left but to cry off. It shamed her to realize she had made such little progress over the years, but again Jaqen was not _anyone_, and even a small improvement with him meant a huge step in her own lands. Arya was convinced that if she came back home now she could equal Robb in tracking prey or enemy, and her swordplay would be just as good as Jon's.

_"When a man tracks a prey, he becomes the prey. Become a man, and you'll be able to find him."_

Arya recalled the pieces of advice she heard every morning from her very cryptic master before he vanished in thin air, and forced herself to try to put them to good use. Again.

_This should be easy_, Arya thought, _I've been mistaken for a boy since my childhood. Ok, think like a man, Arya._

She snorted when the first thing that came to her mind was the façade of a brothel in King's Landing. _That _was what men thought about right.

But when that part of her memory slowly started to unroll inside her head, bringing her back to that night when she was wandering alone in the city, starving, her stomach protesting loudly against the chunks of unappetizing dead bird it had troubles digesting, she tried to push it all away. Now was not the time to remember how she had been clutching at her shirt to steady her shaking limbs when the delicious aroma of food had wafted from the brothel, making her stomach growl.

Arya shivered and bit down on her lip, willing herself to focus on the here and now. Now was not the time for getting lost in the past – it was the time for tracking sly Bravos.

If Arya had to hide, she would have taken a small bark and gone under the cliff where she thought she'd have remained hidden from everyone on the island. That was the reason why she'd climbed up there, squinting her eyes and trying to make out the form of a boat in the waters below her. She was certain she'd found out his secret, but as the horizon remained clear she eventually had to admit she was wrong again. The current at the base of the cliff seemed too strong for a bark to avoid the rocks, anyway, but Arya couldn't have known without coming to see it by herself. Life at the seaside was still something new to her.

_"A girl must listen… with her eyes."_

With an exasperated sigh, Arya turned around and shielded her eyes from the sun, embracing the deserted plain that was the island. Nothing was moving except for the small tree some feet down the road, the wind blowing through its leaves and shaking them without a sound.

Arya's gaze suddenly darted on the other side of the track. She was looking at the bushes – one of the few types of vegetation that could survive on this inhospitable rock. They were a bland shade of green, big enough for a man to hide inside, and one of them especially appeared to be surrounded by a cloud of buzzing insects. If it were mosquitos, it meant there was something in those bushes that attracted them. Something with a pulse; something warm like an animal… or a human.

Holding her breath, Arya crouched down and slowly crept to the bushes with small, careful steps, using every tricks her master had taught her to remain as silent as a wolf on the hunt. She didn't want to only find Jaqen – she wanted to surprise him; to finally impress the man that always seemed unmoved whatever the circumstances.

She came to a halt a couple of feet away from the bush, and a little smile played on her lips when she looked at the insects hovering above the bush : she'd guessed it right, those were mosquitos looking for blood.

_Gotcha !_

Arya stood up and parted the foliage, ready to find Jaqen hiding in the midst of the branches. But when her fingers touched something tepid and wet, she withdrew them quickly and looked at her hands. They were covered in blood. Arya's heart leaped in her chest – what was the meaning of this, was her master wounded ?

She parted the foliage again with jerky movements, too impatient to control herself, but when she reached the ground, what appeared wasn't Jaqen but simply the carcass of some dead animal – a hare with small round ears, a common specie in Braavos. It was skinned and the smell of its fresh blood was attracting the insects.

"Ah, damn !"

Arya kicked the bush, unable to hold back her angry cry. Jaqen enjoyed scattering his way with lures and Arya had the bad habit of falling for them hook, line and sinker. When she'd tell him about this one, he was probably going to look down on her and say something like : _"A girl jumped to conclusions again," _with that knowing grin she sometimes wanted to punch away from his face.

Arya sighed and came back on the road.

_"A girl must see… with the soles of her feet."_

She tried to follow Jaqen's instructions and focused her attention on that place where her boots met the ground. They were made of salamander skin – a resistant material, yet finer enough so that she could sense the ground underneath without catching blisters.

She fought off the reflex to close her eyes in order to shut down the rest of the world, for it'd be the opposite of the result she was aiming for : use her body and every single sense she possessed at the same time, without choosing one above the others.

_"A girl looks, but she doesn't see," _was her master's favorite line but hard as she tried, Arya couldn't sense _anything_.

Arya started to lose patience. There was nothing up there, she was certain of that. She decided to get back down the road and return to the plain for she held no hope of seeing anything from the cliff anymore.

She started walking down the road and passed by the tree. And suddenly froze, her brow furrowing.

The tree.

_Oh no, no, no ! How can I be so stupid ? _She thought, smacking her forehead with a hand still slick and coated in the blood of the hare. _There are no_ _trees in Braavos !_

Arya gasped when she felt a light tap on her shoulder. She turned around briskly and found Jaqen menacing her with her own sword, a smirk tugging at a corner of his mouth. Arya looked down at her belt while at the same time fingering her empty sheath, her eyes widening with the realization that she had been stolen her sword without noticing.

"Hey, this is mine !"

Arya reached for Breeze but Jaqen hid it behind his back in a swift motion and shook his slender forefinger right in front of her nose, making her eyes cross as they tried to focus on it.

Breeze was the name of the sword Jaqen advised Arya to buy when he found out she had no weapon, for there were many pugnacious bravos in the city and they were known for frequently challenging everyone to display their skill. If you were not armed you were considered as an outsider, a misfit. Arya had dueled many times and without Jaqen, she wouldn't have been respected and whenever she went to buy groceries for her master, the bravos children would have thrown stones at her, and the merchants would have refused to sell her anything except for rotten seaweeds and stale fish.

"A girl was doing well, but she started making mistakes when she got carried away."

"How do you know I got carried away ?" Arya asked curtly, trying to reach behind his back. "I didn't ! I was doing what you told me."

She didn't like being left without her weapon, it always gave her a raw feeling of vulnerability. Jaqen's training had made her stronger than before – stronger than a girl her age was supposed to be –, and also faster and more agile than many men. But that wasn't enough. Arya didn't want to run away from her enemies, she wanted to _confront _them like any knight of honor would and look them in the eye when she plunged her sword deep into their chest. Jaqen had tried to convince her that instead of a mere object, it was her mind that could become her greatest weapon but she'd been hard-nosed on that matter : she wanted to master the art of fencing with all her heart. It was her ambition ever since she saw Bran practicing in the courtyard when they were kids. She'd wanted to try too, and he'd refused because she was a girl, and girls were supposed to stay inside and play with stuffed dolls. Not fight.

"A girl's body was distracted. If a girl's mind starts wandering, she won't be able to see the danger coming. Not before it's too late."

Arya stopped her vain attempts to get her sword back and huffed, blowing a strand of dark copper hair out of her face.

"It's _Arya_, not _a girl_," she said, trying not to glower at Jaqen even if the latter never appeared to notice her bad temper. "And I want to be able to do that too. I want to be invisible like you."

"Arya can't learn the ancient knowledge of the Faceless Men only after a bunch of years," he replied quietly. "Those abilities require time to be mastered. And a man's tricks are just… mirages, after all. Don't forget that."

Arya pouted and had to resist the urge to stomp her feet like a child. When Jaqen handed her Breeze back, she snatched it moodily from him, doing her best to ignore her master's annoying smirk.

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As the sun reached its highest position in the sky, Arya and Jaqen were reaching the end of the young girl's fencing lesson for the day.

The Bravos' moves were graceful like a feline's, making it impossible for Arya to even touch him with the tip of her sword. Each time she lunged at him with a war cry worthy of a true barbarian of Essos, instead of impressing him, she was always too slow and he kept disappearing, leaving her stabbing the air right where he was only a split second ago.

Even when she eventually chose to trick him with a feint, Jaqen seemed to read her mind and anticipated her attacks again, merely taking a quick step aside at the last moment. When she rushed past him he kicked the back of her knees and made her stumble forward with a surprised gasp. Arya gasped and flailed her arms in the air like a windmill, trying to keep her balance. She was going too fast, though, and despite her attempts to keep her balance she went sprawling forward, her chin hitting the hard ground with a not-really-ladylike grunt. Pain exploded in her jaw when her teeth clashed together and it felt like it echoed through her skull, making her eyes water. When she coughed she raised dust that immediately came into her eyes and made her blink it out furiously.

She pushed her long ponytail out of her face – she had managed to get a mouthful of copper hair – and squatted down, breathing loudly. Her knees were throbbing, probably scraped under her dirtied wraps, and her wrists were burning when she had tried to cushion her fall with her hands. Stupid reflexes.

But unlike the other times, Arya hadn't lost her sword and that was what she was focusing on, forgetting the pain or the state of her clothes; they were only useless distractions. She was still holding Breeze securely in her hand, and that was the only thing that counted. The wolf had still its claws.

Arya reaffirmed her hold on the hilt of her sword, grimacing when she felt the scraped skin of her knees stretch uncomfortably when she stood up. Sweat was trickling down her forehead and her temples, coating her brow and she quickly wiped it out with the back of her hand before it could run into her eyes.

Jaqen was resting his hands on his waist. He looked like he was completely relaxed but Arya knew better by now. Actually, under his cool appearance he was watching his opponent intently.

_"Against an enemy there is no place for honor," _Jaqen always said. If he'd played fair he would have never hit her when she had her back at him. But Arya didn't want to play by the rules, and she always took good note of her master's tricks without getting offense, even when she was ending up biting the dust._ "A girl mustn't ever assume the enemy will fight fairly. All deceitful tactics are allowed, for the other part will show no mercy to a girl."_

Inhaling loudly through her nose, Arya took a step forth and did a real show of staggering on purpose, bending one of her legs as if she had trouble putting her weight on it. She cast a glance at Jaqen and saw the absent satisfaction displayed on his face. Did he believe that she was really that badly injured from a stupid fall ?

_Maybe I can be a good enough actress ? If this works, Jaqen will let his guard down. But only for a single moment… well, it'd be enough. Get ready Arya, this may be your hour of glory !_

Jaqen waved his hand in a come-hitter motion and Arya gripped her sword with two hands before rushing forward.

She was hobbling along because of her supposedly injured leg which slowed her down. But when he was about to move away from her reach with that same inexplicable, almost unnatural speed, Arya stopped pretending and brutally sped up, lifting Breeze in front of her and letting out a scream so unlike her usual voice, the fierceness of it almost surprising her.

The sword shone in the sunlight and Arya saw Jaqen's eyes open wide in astonishment. He still managed to step aside and out of her way. But he'd waited far too long and could only take a step aside before Arya turned around in a vicious pirouette and blocked his path, the sharp side of her sword swirling around until it stopped with the steel digging only slightly in Jaqen's cheek. They both froze at the same time, neither of them quite believing that Arya had finally done it. She had finally touched him.

Arya was chuffing, bent almost in two in front of her master from exertion, her lungs screaming for more air and her heart beating at an impossibly fast rate that made her head dizzy, but her hold on Breeze was perfectly steady. She knew she had become much stronger than before, but it was only in moments like this that she could really realize the improvements she'd made. Five years ago she had still trouble catching things thrown at her.

Arya blinked, and when she opened her eyes a split second later all she saw was a white and gold blur before Jaqen suddenly stood at her side, the point of his dagger only an inch under the girl's chin. Her own sword was still pointing at where Jaqen stood mere seconds ago.

Arya's body went tense and her mouth fell open. All she could do for a moment was stare at her master in disbelief.

"Seven Hells ! That's… that's fucking unfair !"

"This is a simple reminder. When a girl's got the opportunity to kill, a girl must show no mercy or a girl will be the one to lose her life."

"Did you _want_ me to kill you?" Arya spat angrily.

She had beaten him, why couldn't he praise her for once without turning all weird on her. Like talking about his apprentice killing him. Arya hadn't ever thought about killing him but if he kept being such a hardass she sure as hell was going to be tempted.

Her eyes were fixed on Jaqen's tan face, the color of her irises blackening from sheer anger when he didn't seem to lower his dagger and kept her standing still.

"The Red God doesn't want a man's soul. At least not today."

Jaqen withdrew his weapon and Arya's body sagged, all the tension leaving her in a rush now that she was free to move.

"Well, a girl's apprenticeship is over."

"What ? You mean the lesson ?" Arya sheathed her sword and crossed her arms over her chest. But when he didn't go into further explanation and started walking down the swath, her brows shot up and she ran after him. "No, wait, you can't mean it's all over ! I haven't–"

"A man has taught a girl everything he could teach her," he said as they were taking the direction of Jaqen's old shack on the shore.

"You're lying, I may have improved my fighting skills but you're still so much faster ! What will I do if–"

"A man has nothing more to teach a girl. A girl can't run any faster than what her body allows her to do, and a girl has reached her limits long ago. But today a girl showed she finally understands the importance of wisdom against an enemy. She may never run fast as a man, but instead found a way to slow a man down to her own pace. A girl's feint was really smart."

Arya opened her mouth, the protest burning bright in her eyes and the angry words ready to shot out of her mouth.

"The objective of the lessons was to free the mind. Once a girl's convinced everything's possible, no barriers will ever be able to stop her."

Arya felt her mouth shut of its own accord. Maybe Jaqen and his "the mind is more powerful than the body" bullshit was true ? She _did _manage to touch her master, and the man was as impossible to catch as the wind.

Arya spent the short journey back to their home tagging along her master in silence, mulling over his words. She had wanted someone to tell her she was strong enough countless times, always seeking the approval of her elders and especially the warriors. A compliment coming from Jaqen meant the universe to her, but she remained skeptical. She had thought she was good enough to fight and wield her sword many times in the past, only to be reminded of the contrary in very embarrassing ways.

When they entered the shack, Jaqen walked to the fireplace and busied himself with rekindling the dying fire. The shack was made of wood imported from the continent and the interior had nothing fancy; inside it was only one square room with a fireplace that kept the cold sea wind outside, a rough table with a chair and a stool added for when Arya had moved in. There was also a tin bathtub in a corner opposite the fireplace, and a bookcase stood in the other. But the shack was so small one side of the bathtub was touching the bookcase and there was no space left between the two pieces of furniture.

Arya had offered to pay for his services, and even more after seeing the shack for the first time and seeing the blatant evidences of his poverty, but Jaqen had always refused any kind of payment. He said the night the Golden Cloaks attacked the little company of apprentice Night Watchers and Arya saved him from cooking inside his cage with his companions when the Golden Cloaks, she had already given him something inestimable, and he was the one supposed to pay by teaching her his

Arya sat down on her stool at one end of the table and closed her eyes, thinking about the letter she needed to send to Winterfell to inform her family about the end of her stay in Braavos.

The sound of the waves rolling in the bay was coming through the lonely window right above her head, and she automatically evened her breathing to the rhythmical sound of the ebb and flow of the sea. She had spent five years on the archipelago of Braavos and it had become her home but now, she was forced to leave. She considered arguing some more with Jaqen about the abrupt end of their arrangement but then decided against it. If Jaqen had his mind set on the matter, there was no use trying to argue with him.

A single caw tore through the quiet and made the two residents of the shack turn toward the window. A moment later, a raven dived through the narrow opening before landing in the middle of the table. The bird ruffled its feathers and there was another caw when it turned its black beady eyes to stare at Arya, raising its head as if he recognized her and knew the message it was carrying was for her.

"Bran."

Arya smiled and caught the bird without fear, unlacing the thread holding the message from its paw with deft movements. Then she let the bird go and unfolded the piece of paper. It could be either Bran with news from the castle or else, her mother. She hoped it was her brother because he hadn't written her anything for what felt like _ages_, and not knowing what was happening in Winterfell was really frustrating.

It was well and truly Bran, Arya immediately recognized his squiggle.

She and her older brother had kept a steady correspondence since her arrival in Braavos. This way she was always up on the events in Winterfell without having to bother her other brothers who were all very busy with their duties. Robb had a kingdom to rule, Jon a wall to protect and Theon… _well_, she hadn't seen _that _"brother" of hers since he finally got truly accepted by his father and the rest of the Greyjoys – whoever those people were – and decided to stay with them. Arya didn't know any of them, had never met them and to her, Theon didn't mean anything anymore. He'd betrayed the Starks and even if he'd been pardoned by the King, she still held resentment for him and what he'd done to her brothers and the people of the North.

Thanks to Bran and his generous letters, Arya knew that shortly after her departure, Robb had finally consented to fulfill his engagement towards Lord Frey and made his arranged marriage with Arabella Frey official. According to Bran the girl was very much ugly and because of an old injury, she was limping and used a cane to walk. But something nobody expected happened and as it turned out, Robb found a kindred spirit in his bride. Bran had written about 'Bella' and how she'd first appeared to all like a shy creature but once out of her father's domain, she'd shown a whole lot of personality. Arya guessed that if it wasn't her looks, _that _had to be what had caught Robb's interest.

_"Dear sister mine, _Bran was writing, _I am well aware that this story might upset you but I hope the news I'm about to share with you won't make you abandon your projects in Braavos. I am only convinced that you must be informed of this event and the changes that have happened in Winterfell._

_Yesterday at dawn, sir Sandor Clegane showed at the city gates. He was surrounded by a horde of wildlings and he claimed suffering from a severe injury. He was losing against his enemies and asked for our assistance."_

"What ? How _dare _he ?!"

"Has something happened with a girl's family ?" Jaqen asked as he turned to look at her frowning face.

"My name is _Arya_," she snarled, unable to control the anger boiling inside at the mention of the Hound's name. "Why can't you put that in your head ?"

Jaqen had that annoying habit of never calling people by their names, and she usually didn't care. Only with the abrupt ending of her apprenticeship, and now the letter from her brother... There was no wonder she was cranky. Right now she had absolutely no patience left to deal with Jaqen's quirks.

"Names are useless – in the worst case, they bring trouble."

Arya hooked a brow in disbelief. Jaqen had never bothered giving her a reason for calling her "a girl" and himself "a man" all the time.

"If you don't have a name, you don't belong anywhere," she replied, scratching her neck absently. "You have no family, no history, you only… _exist_," she said and made a disgusted face. "It'd be really sad if people didn't have any kind of names."

"Names have reputations, and reputations are a burden. If a man's got no name, he's got no reputation. No one can follow a man when he travels around the world if they don't know who they are looking for, and no one can guess his next move. A girl must remember what a man told her at the beginning of her apprenticeship : when a girl departs for her lands, '_Jaqen H'ghar'_ will no longer exist. A girl mustn't utter that name ever again."

"But… you never said why. Why can't I tell anybody about you ? Who _are_ you ?"

Jaqen (or whatever the man's real name was) put a finger on his mouth and shushed softly at her. He had maybe opened up a bit for the first time in years but it looked like it was already over. With a little sigh, Arya refocused on her letter. She didn't really care, anyway. If he didn't want to tell, it was his problem and not hers.

_At first, _Bran was writing, _and as you might have guessed, Robb let the doors closed and refused to let Sir Clegane in. For a moment I honestly feared the man was going to bust the doors. The sound of his fists banging against the steel was making the children hide and the women weep in silence. They thought we were under attack again, Theon's betrayal still vibrant in my memory and those of our people. When Sir Clegane's calls turned hoarse and the span of silence between each started stretching as if he was losing forces, we knew it wouldn't take long for the wildlings to kill him._

_And this is when Sansa came to Robb in tears and begged that he let him in. She begged like I've never seen our sister beg, crying and imploring for Sir Clegane's life as if it were her own._

"And Robb gave in, I suppose."

Arya had a bitter taste in her mouth when she thought about her sister's betrayal. After Sansa came back from King's Landing with Robb, Arya had had trouble recognizing her sister. She had been as beautiful as ever, if not more after growing into adulthood and her beauty having come into full bloom, but her eyes, her pretty aquamarine eyes had suddenly looked misplaced on that young and living face. Her eyes had been old, and Sansa had that look of someone who had seen too much too young. Arya had known she didn't look like the little girl she used to be, but to discover the war had also transformed her sister, hurt her in ways more painful than any physical wound could do for she had been the object of Joffrey's repugnant affection and suffered his psychological abuse.

Arya had never felt closer to her sister than in that day, but even when they had spent many nights after that laying in the same bed together and sharing storied from when they were apart, Sansa never said anything about Sir Clegane, or 'the Hound' as Arya knew him.

She had told her of Baelish' plots to get himself a land and a name, and how the cunning man had survived the war and joined the Queen's court, moving over to the enemy's side without a single afterthought.

She had told Arya how badly Joffrey had treated her, and how the rest of the Lannisters had watched her wither inside without raising their little finger to help her. Cersei, Baelish, Varys, Tyrion, they all thought they had some control over Joffrey but in reality, they were scared from him for he was cruel to the extreme. The Stark sisters both remembered the first time they saw the monster hiding behind that beautiful mask of royal natural charm and wealth. They had both wept after remembering the circumstances of Lady's death after so many years – Lady had been the name of Sansa's wolf.

Arya remembered all of this, but as hard as she tried, she couldn't recall anything about the Hound. He used to be Joffrey's personal guard, and it was very likely Sansa and that ugly brute had met often over the years, until the Hound fled King's Landing when Robb's army invaded the city, slicing his way through the soldiers that had been guarding the city gates before disappearing into the night.

_Robb warned her that if we let him in Winterfell, she would be responsible for Sir Clegane and everything he did would be considered as her fault too. Sansa was adamant and refused to let him die outside, and so Robb ordered the doors open._

_The wildlings weren't very numerous, most of them having abandoned the hunt earlier and we had no problems finishing them fast. Sir Clegane had a broken pike jutting out of one of his thighs and was bleeding copiously. He had also been stabbed in the back but he seemed unaware of his wound. There was no trace of his horse or any of his belongings, so we made the assumption that he had fallen from it somewhere on the road after the injury on his thigh, or after the wildlings had pushed him from his saddle during their attack._

_When our men brought him inside the castle, the healer said he had a fever and he was talking nonsense. We had to put him in your room, since it was empty and Sansa refused Robb's proposition to lock him the donjon. _

"He is staying in my room ?!" Arya roared, now absolutely outraged. "_Fuck you !"_

She was suddenly seeing the end of her training in Braavos like a benediction, now. Even if Jaqen hadn't been finished with her, she would have come back home anyway just to slap Sansa's pretty face for letting one of their father's murderers in _Arya's bed !_

_The healer tended to his wounds and after we all left, Sansa spent the rest of the day and all the night by his side. She told us he used to be her protector in King's Landing, before becoming a deserter, and that she owed him with her life._

_You told us he was there the day father was killed, on Joffrey's side, but Sansa's version of the story makes it impossible to hold a grudge against this man. He was a mere servant, and father didn't die from his hand. I don't know what to think about him, since he hasn't woken up yet. All I can remember of that man is from the first time he came to Winterfell, and I can barely recall anything from that time._

_The healer said he's lost too much blood and he probably won't survive the fever, but I do hope he's still as strong as people used to say. I know you'll never agree with me, little sister, but I want to thank the man who protected my sister._

The rest of the letter was about their mother's health – she was an old woman and with the nearly constant bad weather and the winds that were coming from the icelands of the extreme North, she was almost always sick, staying in bed for days because her cold made her too weak to get up. She scarcely left her chambers but from what Arya had read from her hand, she was not letting the sickness weigh her down. She was back in Winterfell with her family after so many years, they were all doing well and the Kingdom of the North was prospering under Robb's lead, and Catelyn Stark seemed more than satisfied with that.

Arya went to the small bookcase where she kept her writing supplies. She took a piece of parchment, the little bottle of ink and her feather and came back to the table. She wrote down a short reply to Bran telling him that she was coming home (not because of the events in Winterfell, she assured him), rolled the letter and attached it to the bird's paw.

She took the raven and walked to the window before throwing the bird outside.

The sound of wings flapping quickly faded and Arya kept staring at the bird until it was nothing but a black point in the sky.

"I'm going to take a bath," she said as she went to the fireplace and took one of the buckets of freshwater they used for their sanitation. It was heavy and she panted a little when she lifted it and struggled for a moment to hang it on the hook above the fire. When she was done, she heard Jaqen drag the chair across the floor and sit at the table. She only shrugged and took a peek at what he was doing, spotting a new piece of paper in front of him. He was writing messages daily but Arya never knew with whom he was corresponding all that time. After writing it, he would always go downtown to send it and while Arya would be buying food.

Arya stayed by the fire and waited. When the water started to boil, she unhooked the bucket, lifted it and went to the narrow bathtub on the opposite corner of the little shack. She took little steps, careful not to spill water on the floor or burn herself with the scalding liquid.

She put the bucket in the bathtub and undressed quickly, leaving her clothes where they fell on the floor. She stepped in the bathtub, her skin breaking out in goosebumps when she sat down on the cold surface.

She didn't even turn to see if Jaqen was looking at her – she knew he never did. Arya had no modesty when it came down to her body, and even if she had wanted some privacy, it would have been difficult to achieve given the circumstances.

Arya wasn't difficult when it came to comfort. She lived in this slum for years and she could count the times she'd complained on the fingers of one hand. When she had to do everything by herself, it made her feel _alive_. She loved that. She loved depending only on herself more than having everything done by her maid when she was in Winterfell, or the _army _of maids she remembered from the Red Keep. It was also very gratifying to catch her own food when Jaqen ran out of money and they went hunting and fishing. The first time she'd caught a hare, Arya had realized what the hunters felt when they brought back food to their wives. Well, Arya wasn't bringing food to her family or… or a _husband_, but it was still an exhilarating sensation of independence. Food never tasted better than when she'd caught it herself.

There was a wooden cup inside the tub right beside her. She took it and started washing herself, diving the cup into the water and showering herself.

She was shivering everytime she poured hot water on her cold skin. First she washed her hair, taking off her rubber band and letting her long and dark copper hair fall freely on her shoulders and down her back. Arya had kept it short like a boy's during her years of captivity and after coming back home, Sansa had almost wept at the sight of her sister's _godsawful_ haircut that had made her look like a boy. Arya had let it grow because she'd forgotten the feeling of that silky wave of copper hair brushing against her back, but she wasn't wearing it as long as Sansa for she had to remain practical about it. Beauty held no importance to her. What would she do with hair that reached the small of her back, anyway ? Slap her opponents with it ? It would only be an obstacle.

After her hair, Arya washed the mud and dust out of her face, then her armpits. When she reached her knees, she pinched the little woolen threads of the material of her pants and took them away. They had been stuck in her scrapes when she fell down. She poured hot water on the scratches when she was done, shuddering when it stung like a bitch.

When her gaze fell on the marks on the inner side of her thighs, her hand stilled for a moment. The marks were orange-red lines and looked a lot like tattoos. In fact, when Jaqen had asked about them she'd told him it were tattoos, and he'd looked like he believed her.

Wide at the top of her thighs, the lines got progressively narrow until ending in thin and sharp tips on the soft sides of her knees. They looked a lot like the feet of a spider. The longer lines on the sides were straight, but the others were bended and curved inward and had sharp edges. If she kept her legs closed, they remained invisible, and that why she'd successfully kept them a secret from her Robb and Sansa – the only people that knew about… _that_ night.

Arya closed her eyes, pushing away the memories the marks had brought back but it was impossible to ignore, or forget. Every single moment of that horrifying night before Robb saved her was forever branded inside her head.

That night, when Robb finally crushed Tywin's army and discovered his little sister in Lord Lannister's tent, he found her lying on the ground beside Tywin's dead body with her shredded clothes hanging pitifully from her body, covered in blood and clinging desperately to her giant wolf. He had come to kill Lord Lannister but the task had already been accomplished.

_"Oh, Robb ! Nymeria, she… she saved me," _Arya had cried, hot tears flowing freely from her eyes and coating Nymeria's fur, leaving a dark spot where they were dribbling on her neck. _"She came back to save me."_

That night, Tywin had realized the war was over – at least, for him. He knew Robb Stark surrounded his camp and was coming to take what now belonged rightfully to him – in other words, Tywin's life. Tywin had met with the King of the North and refused his demands in exchange of Tywin's life. Robb had offered to spare him if he surrendered, but Lord Lannister had only laughed. Even if she'd felt like a traitor, Arya had admired his courage and honor when she'd heard him tell his men to keep their positions whatever happened.

But back inside his tent, Tywin had spent the last hour of his life barking at Arya to bring him _"wine, more wine !_", always more wine until he was completely messed up. He'd been going on and on about raising his children as best as he could just to see them act like "bloody idiots" and put the shame on his House. He'd especially cursed his younger son the most, calling him a bastard that didn't deserve Tywin's name, a fucking drunkard of a half-man that he should have attached to a rock when he was a baby and thrown in a lake to drown. Arya never saw Tywin drunk before that night, and the memory of his staggering form coming closer, the sharp edges of that stern face turning into an evil sneer when he was telling her how _strange _it was that she looked so much like the bastard of the North he'd just spoken to. The ferocious stare in his bloodshot eyes still terrified her. There was no reason there anymore – only madness.

There had been some times during those two years when Arya had found herself impressed by Tywin's ingenious mind, even if it could have cost her brother's life. But that night, whatever admiration she still had for him vanished into thin air. In front of her had stood a wild beast that had finally discovered the truth about Arya's origins.

Arya thought Tywin must have seen some of Robb's features on her own face after coming back from their meeting. It'd been years after the last time Lord Lannister had seen a Stark, and the children he'd never met. The sudden realization that he'd been in the possession of the perfect hostage for _years _had been too much to cope for the old strategist. He could have exchanged Jaime for her and gained a strong ally while taking Robb's most significant weapon against Tywin. He could have saved his son instead of waiting helplessly until his only heir was lapidated after a mutiny in Robb's ranks last year.

_"You look just like that cunt Catelyn Stark ! You bloody Starks !"_

Drunk and blind with anger, he had lunged at her when she'd less expected it, knocking the breath out of her lungs when her head had hit the table. She had blackened out for a brief moment from the blow, and when she had come back to her Tywin had thrown her on the floor and was lying on top of her, ripping off the front of her clothes frantically, his warm breath on her face making her nauseous as he was insulting her on and on.

She had writhed helplessly underneath him; she had screamed and kicked like a wild stallion captured for the first time, fighting for her freedom, but nothing had seemed to be able to stop him.

Arya had been overpowered by a man who was weakened because he was _drunk_, and it still stung her pride when she thought about it. As if it hadn't been enough, the old bastard had also left her pride in shreds. Of course she was younger back then, and being helpless against Tywin who was a fierce knight was inevitable, but if only she had known all the things Jaqen had taught her since…

When he'd trapped her under his body and started unbuckling his belt, Arya had closed her eyes and fought back her tears with all she had. She wouldn't cry – she would scream, snarl, spit and bite but never shed a single tear in front of that monster.

Arya's fingers shook around the wooden cup when she set it on the edge of the tub, her breathing quickening at the memory of Tywin's disgusting grunts in her ear.

When he'd entered her with a sudden thrust of his hips that was meant to hurt, a violent shudder had tore through her body making her cry out and biting her lip so hard she'd drawn blood. The pain had been unbearable, her body arching away, trying to escape him but Tywin's hands had held her wrists like a vise. It had felt like she was being stabbed between the legs with a blade that was trying to rip her body in two.

If Nymeria hadn't suddenly come out of nowhere to clamp her mouth down on Tywin's throat, shaking her head and moving him away from Arya's trembling form, she probably would have never made it alive. Tywin would have used her to his liking before having her throat cut.

When the wolf had bit Tywin's jugular, warm blood had splashed everywhere, coating Arya from head to toe. It hadn't been long before the wolf suffocated the old man. Arya had felt an alien feeling bubbling inside of her when she heard Tywin's last exhale. She had still been too shocked to realize it was relief that she was feeling.

And also satisfaction. Bones-deep satisfaction at hearing Tywin's last breath. It had sounded like _victory_, and the blood covering her face had tasted like _revenge_.

The pain between her legs had subsided but she had still felt it; she'd also felt the blood trickling down her thighs, another proof that what had happened was irreparable. She wasn't pure anymore. At least the filthy Lannister hadn't had the time to fuck her properly, and for that she was grateful. The Gods weren't _that_ cruel after all; he'd only taken her virginity and left her sullied and broken for anyone else. Not that Arya wanted to ever be touched by another man ever again. But she'd still felt so dirty she wanted to rip her skin from her bones and throw it in the fire still burning quietly in the tent.

"Nymeria," Arya had whispered, still shaking from the shock, and the anger, and the pain both physical and psychical.

Her vision had started to get blurry then, and that had been the moment she had realized she had finally let her tears fall. But it hadn't been sad tears, or weak tears women shed all the time. She had wept from _anger_, and also for how _much_ she had lost to someone as detestable as Tywin had been. Detestable husband, detestable father, detestable master.

The wolf had spit the old man before coming back to Arya, letting her cling to her neck when she had felt her last forces being literally drained from her broken body.

"_Yes, little girl, I am Nymeria_," a soft voice had whispered in her ear, apparently coming from the wolf.

Arya had let out a gasp and reared back to look into the wolf's unusually bright eyes. They had looked so old, and full of wisdom, and then it had spoken again.

"_You named your pet after me, I am flattered. Nobody believes in the old witch of the forest anymore, she's been forgotten like men did with the Old Gods. But you child, you didn't forget._" The wolf had then licked her face, lapping the remnants of Lord Lannister's blood, cleaning her from his filth. _"I heard your call, and I came to save you. Now your life belongs to me, little girl._"

"Thank you," Arya had sobbed without even knowing what she was saying. "Thank you, thank you so much !"

"_From now on you'll wear my mark, little girl, and you'll be my servant. I will protect you and I promise that no man shall lay a hand on you ever again._"

After that, all Arya remembered was the burning sensation on the inside of her thighs, right where her blood had ran down her legs, as the marks were slowly starting to appear, looking like they were emerging from under her skin and exploding on the surface to form the marks that looked so much like the legs of a spider.

Arya frowned at the marks when she came back to the present, and with a sigh she proceeded to wash her feet, scrubbing every space between her toes. When she felt clean again, she stood up and dried herself with one of the ragged towels hanging on the wall beside the bathtub. Before putting her clothes back, she rubbed scented oil on her skin – one of the few luxuries she indulged in – and started the long process of cleaning the tub from the soiled water.

* * *

The ship was on the port and ready to depart but before leaving the continent, Arya had wanted to say goodbye to the city that had adopted her for the last five years. She had already assured the Sealord, the man who ruled the city, that the House Stark would be forever grateful and will return the favor someday.

She was in the temple of the Many-Faced God, one of the most impressive monuments she'd ever seen in her life, kneeling in front of the altar. There were flowers brought by the villagers, and also baskets full of fish, fruits, and many other offerings. The people had remained respectful of their deity, and even if Arya wasn't sure whether the Many-Faced God was as real as her own Gods, she felt at peace in the temple, in the middle of the flowery fragrance. There were fewer candles than in other temples she'd seen, and no windows, so the only light was coming from the entry behind her back, far on the other side of the temple.

The statue behind the altar wasn't big – it was at Arya's height when standing – and represented a man with four faces, one for each compass point, sitting with his clothed legs folded under him. His hands were crossed against his naked chest and he wore a long necklace made of what seemed to be feathers, shark teeth, pebbles and fishes. Arya knew by experience that the four faces were all different from one another, but all four sets of eyes were closed. Arya always wondered why, but the Faceless Men (that was the name of the priests of the temple) were not especially talkative, and the Bravos didn't know whatsoever. They only came here and prayed to thank the God for his benedictions, or to plead for mercy when he decided to be cruel.

"Thank you," she whispered, bowing her head and keeping her eyes down on her hands. "I came here to learn the knowledge of your people, and I promise I'll use it wisely. I won't hurt those who didn't do me any wrong, but to my enemies I swear to show no mercy."

Her voice raised a notch without her notice as she was bearing her soul at the feet of the God.

"Joffrey, Cersei, Ilyn Payne, the Hound… These are the names of my enemies, but either the war took their lives before I could find them or my stupid sister took pity on them. My brother the King wasn't there when my father died, yet it was he who avenged him. My father rests in peace now, for his assassins have received their punishment; but I still have a vengance of my own to carry on, and one that my brother can take no part in. I must find the man who left me in the hands of Lord Lannister, the man who abandoned me to my fate after he promised to always keep me safe. I never felt safe. I lived two years in constant fear, believing the next day would be the day I'd be recognized and tortured to death, or cut in pieces and the remnants of my body sent to my brother. Those years I've survived, it was for one and only purpose…"

Arya heard the hidden door that lead to the priests' quarters open and close with a soft thump and finished her oath in a whisper.

"Now that you gave me the strength… I will finally be able to make him pay with his life."

When she turned around, she saw a little silhouette in the Faceless Men's grey cloak, the hood hiding the person's face.

She recognized the young boy that lived with the priests without seeing his face. He was well known for everyone who came often enough to the temple, for he had been abandoned to the priests' care when he was a baby and spent his days wandering in the house of the Many-Faced God.

Nobody knew where he came from, and the villagers had this habit of calling him 'the Lizard' because of his malformations. People said he was suffering from some sort of really rare sort of infection, which had a good part of his face and body covered in scales.

Arya had only seen him once without his hood, and she was still feeling guilty about the shocked gasp she had been unable to bite back at the monstrous sight of his face. She remembered the shiny, reptile-like scales that ran down one side of his tanned face to his chin and disappeared under his cloak.

The boy had silver-gold hair, a rather unusual color for the people living in the Free Cities, and his skin had been pale after never been exposed to the sun. But it was a golden kind of pale that was a shade darker than Arya's, which showed he was still a true child of Essos even with his strange hair.

But what had struck her the most had been his eyes. While one was a bright blue, clearer than a summer sky, the other was a dirty yellow, probably a result of the infection, and surrounded by little scales that fluttered when he blinked.

She knew he'd noticed her in front of the altar because of his little gasp, and then the boy disappeared back inside the hidden part if the temple, the door closing behind him. Arya was always sad whenever she came across the boy. He never spoke with no one, never went outside, never smiled or laughed. She had never seen him show any kind of emotions, good or bad.

Well, she did remember that one time she saw him whispering something in Jaqen's ear. The priests and Jaqen had to be the only people he felt comfortable with. What a miserable life indeed.

She sighed and finished her prayer.

When she felt like she was done, she stood up and left without any more ceremony.

* * *

The ship waiting for Arya at the Chequy Port was the same she had used to come to Essos. It had been sent again by the King after they had received her letter announcing her return, and it was now ready to sail and bring her back home.

The sailors were all men of the North, all trained to guard the precious life of the Princess. They were likely ready to die for her, and little did they know about how well Arya could defend herself without their help.

But Arya was not allowed to come on board yet. She was still on the quay with her brother's men wandering around or sitting in the shadows to hide from the striking sun, all because the ship was currently being inspected by the Sealord's men. They had to get through those formalities to get the authorization to leave. The Sealord was either one of the most rigorous rulers she knew, or a man suffering from a severe case of paranoia. But who could blame him for not trusting the strangers, after the era of war and terror that had left Westeros devastated.

She hadn't expected Jaqen to come with her to the port, and when he'd offered to accompany her she'd been pleasantly surprised.

"A man thought he'd never see Arya again after the night she saved him from the flames. But the Red God wants the souls a girl once stole from him. A man won't be able to find peace before Arya gives them back, and neither shall a girl."

Jaqen pulled the dagger he always carried in his boot and presented it to Arya.

"And I won't find peace before I've paid my blood debt," Arya replied and accepted the gift.

Jaqen had offered to do it himself. When Arya had crossed his path again the first day she arrived in Braavos and knew he would become her master, he'd offered her to give him three names, one for each life she had spared, including his own, and he'd have taken care of ending their miserable existences. If he'd made that offer to her seven years ago instead of disappearing into the darkness with his companions as soon as he'd been freed from his cage, the day of the Golden Cloaks' attack, maybe Arya would have accepted his offer gladly. But that just never happened.

Arya only had _one_ name left on her list to cross out, but she didn't share that piece of information with him. That one she wanted to take care of herself. Besides that, she didn't plan on killing two more people just in the name of a god she didn't believe in. When she had asked Jaqen years ago if this Red God was another name for the Many-Faced God of Braavos, he'd laughed and told her he didn't believe in the God of the Bravos for he was not born in the Free Cities. Arya had been quite surprised to hear that, seeing how well he knew the customs of the city, and any of her further inquiries about his origins had been politely ignored.

Jaqen's dagger was a piece of art, the black wooden hilt with beautiful carvings light in the hand. Arya had seen him wield it often enough to know the damages it could do. And he'd just given it to her, one of his most precious belongings. Arya already didn't know what to say to thank him for everything he'd done for her, and after that she felt a lump settle in her throat and her eyes start to itch.

"_Valar Morghulis_," she eventually said, a bit bluntly but unable to find the right words to let him know all that she felt inside.

These would have to do.

Valar Morghulis was a customary saying in Essos. It meant "all men must die". A very seedy kind of greeting, really, but Arya always thought it to be full of wisdom. All men had to die someday, after all. And some sooner than others.

Jaqen didn't seem to mind her ungratefulness, for he was still smiling and bowed in front of her too.

"_Valar Dohaeris_," he replied in his soft whisper of a voice.

All men must serve.

* * *

**Guess whose head Arya is after ? *evil laughter***

**P.S. : OK, a guest highlighted the fact that Arya says she wasn't raped at the beginning, and then she is, which may sound a _little _bit confusing. That's because in the 1st version, she was saved before it could happen, but then I changed my mind and... forgot to change one sentence somewhere. Thanks for your remark, I hope it's all good now.**

**I just want to add that I absolutely don't consider what happens in that scene as _not_ being rape, or minimizing what Tywin did to Arya. In the warnings it's clearly stated "non-con", which kind of means I _knew _I was talking about sexual abuse/rape/however you want to call it. **

**I hope I'm not overreacting because of a review, I usually accept all kinds of criticism with wide open arms. **

**Just wanted to make things clear.**


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